


The Fall of the North

by Mercurie



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Cultural Differences, Epic, Gen, Novel, Travel, Unfinished and Discontinued, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2003-04-04
Updated: 2003-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:26:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 151,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercurie/pseuds/Mercurie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of the decline and fall of Arnor, Gondor's sister kingdom in the north of Middle Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Roads Lead to Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was written and discontinued over 10 years ago. I've left it up for completeness' sake and because very few fics cover this period in Middle Earth's history, so I figured someone might be interested in even an unfinished story. The story features almost entirely original characters, settings on the Middle Earth map not explored in the canon, and some inspiration from Tolkien's notes on Middle Earth and previous versions of Lord of the Rings.

Adelard Marchbank lay motionless upon the ground, hoping to be overlooked. Heavy feet in iron-soled boots thudded past him, shaking the earth as he pressed his cheek against it. He listened breathlessly as the rumbling crowd passed by, trying to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible - something Hobbits are particularly good at. But not good enough, this time.

With a crunch, one weighty boot landed right before his nose, crushing the dry underbrush that surrounded him. Adelard threw himself backwards only just in time as a curved sword blade sunk into the ground where he had lain. He crashed into the snarled brush, thorns catching at his cloak as he tried vainly to roll farther away.

"Don't move!" a hoarse voice growled at him, and he froze. Slowly he looked up, his gaze travelling up all the unpleasant length of the personage standing before him: the black boots, black trousers, dull, stained chain mail and dark cloak, crowned by the hideous visage of an Orc. The Orc jerked his sword back out of the ground and called a halt to the company still thundering by. A few seconds later, Adelard found himself surrounded by a jeering ring of goblins, all far too delighted with their find to bode well for the lone Hobbit. A pair of hands grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him roughly to his feet, stumbling, to set him before the Orc who apparently commanded the company.

"Not trying to hide from us, were you?" the leader said with a sly grin, "One should be hospitable to guests from distant lands! Still, there's a way for you to make up for the discourtesy ... although a little squirrel like you will hardly be a bite for such hungry company!" He laughed, and his followers echoed his mirth dutifully.

Adelard swallowed and wished he at least had some kind of weapon. If he had only had his dagger, he would have tried to cut down one or two of them before they finished him. But all his weapons had been left behind in the troll's cave when he had escaped days ago, and with only his bare hands he was as defenseless as a child.

"I say we slit its throat now!" snarled a different Orc, waving a long, crooked knife in the air gleefuly, "There's enough blood in this thing to fill a good kettle!" The Orc shouldered its way eagerly through his companions, its greedy eyes fixed on Adelard. Adelard shuddered, cringing inwardly at the thought of becoming lunch for a bunch of hungry goblins. He was saved, though, for the moment at least, by the objections of the head Orc.

"Hold, you insolent swine!" the leader growled, "You can wait your turn! I'm not finished yet. There's a reason why this little squealer is here all alone, or I'm a troll." he said, poking Adelard in the chest with his sword, "Spying, aren't you? Out with it!"

Adelard stared at the Orc's nightmare face, his heart pounding painfully. What to say? He was indeed a spy, set out from the town of Bree in middle Arnor to learn what he could about the Witch-King, the dark ruler who abode in Carn Dum to the north. He had left his home-town and his son behind two weeks ago on a mission to discover what was happening in the eastern lands, where Orcs were appearing in increasing numbers and driving away the inhabitants of Arnor, the North Kingdom. Hobbits, being small and inconspicuous, often took part in such undertakings, and Adelard was not the least skilled at them. He had found out what he needed to know - why the land suddenly swarmed with evil creatures and corrupted men - by eavesdropping on the conversation of a couple of trolls in the Witch-King's service. Trolls were hardly the brightest of beings, but they made up for it in sheer power. Adelard had been captured and barely managed to escape alive. He had spent the last few days fleeing as quickly as he could back west to Bree, his precious secret weighing ever heavier on his mind.

But he could hardly tell that to the Orc still holding its sword threateningly against his chest.

"I ... I'm going east!" he said, trying to cower and look fearful, which didn't take much effort, "I want to go away from here! Away from the Big People! I'm going back to the River where my people came from. I'm not a spy!"

He hoped tensely that the Orc would believe that he was merely a refugee leaving Arnor in its troubled days to flee east - some Hobbits had indeed decided to return to the Anduin on the far side of the Misty Mountains, and perhaps these Orcs had heard of them. He was, however, disappointed.

"A likely story!" the Orc said, "And I'd be a right fool to believe it ... no, I know a spy when I see one. But no matter - whatever you know will go into the cookpot with you! Have at him, boys!" And to Adelard's horror, the lead Orc resheathed his sword and watched in amusement as his followers jumped in a howling crowd upon their victim.

Adelard found his arms twisted and held cruelly behind him. Hands pawed at him as the goblins searched rudely through his pockets for any valuables to steal. One of them leered in his face, its breath blowing hot against his skin, but he hardly noticed; his eyes were fixed on a medium-sized, iron cauldron being carried towards him in the hands of one of his captors. He could hardly believe it - this, apparently, was the end. He was going to expire in the pot of an Orc-band. Adelard watched with horrible fascination as the cauldron was lowered to the ground and coarse hands began to kindle a fire next to it. He thought with wistful longing of his little hole in the Bree-hill, its well-filled pantries and comfortable bedrooms, and of his son, Tolman, who had recently turned thirty-three. Normally Hobbits gave presents to other people on their birthdays, but Adelard was so proud of his son that he had given him a present instead - a short sword, of the right size for a Hobbit but of a unique nature that was yet another of the secrets he kept hidden. One more secret he would never be able to tell now.

Flames sprang into the air before him, devouring the brushwood the Orcs had torn from the surrounding bushes. The crackling of the fire sounded like the cracking of bones in Adelard's ears. Within minutes, the cauldron was filled with water and set up over the fire. An Orc grabbed Adelard roughly and lifted him off his feet, tucking the Hobbit uncomfortably under his arm as he carried him to the cookfire.

Adelard found himself face to face with a steaming, bubbling, hissing pot of water. It looked hot. Very hot.

But surely ... they weren't going to cook him in his clothes?

Luckily, he never had the chance to find out. At that moment he heard a loud shout, and with a curse, the Orc dropped him. He fell with a thud to the ground next to the fire, rolling instinctively away from the flames to come to a halt sprawled upon his stomach. Hardly daring to move, he looked up. A strange sight met his eyes. The Orcs had drawn away from him and the cauldron, and had backed up into a ring, except for the leader, who stood alone in the circle, wearing a grimace that made him look even uglier than normal, if that were possible. As Adelard watched, the rows of the Orcs parted, opening a pathway directly opposite the Orc leader. A tall figure strode heedlessly through the snarling ranks of the goblins.

Adelard's gaze fell on the new-comer's face, and he suddenly wished he could curse as well as an Orc. It was a Man's face, neither young nor particularly old, pale, with dark red hair and large grey eyes that flinched at nothing. He garb was ragged and travelled-stained, but he looked no less noble for it. Pinned onto his cloak he wore a brooch shaped like a tree surrounded by seven stars - the emblem of the Guard of Bree. Adelard had an identical brooch, though it was under his cloak now and well out of sight.

In itself, none of this was disturbing, of course - the problem was, Adelard knew this particular Man quite well. He was one of the four Captains of the Guard of Bree and his name was Lominelen, Lomin for short. He was, or had been, Adelard's companion.

Adelard had not, of course, left Bree on his own, but had been accompanied by three Men, among them Lomin, who alone out of the company was of the Dúnedain, the Men of the West. His other two companions had been killed by the trolls, before he and Lomin had managed to escape. The two survivors had been travelling together, weaponless and horseless in the wild, until they had stumbled upon this band of Orcs. Adelard had tried to conceal himself in the underbrush beneath the sparse trees, but his friend had disappeared safely into the cover of a nearby stand of trees, or so he had thought at the time. Apparently, however, Lomin had decided not to leave Adelard to his fate, and was staging a hopeless, and all-in-all rather disappointing rescue attempt.

Lomin came to a halt within the circle of Orcs, facing their leader calmly. The goblins snarled but shied away from him in fear. This didn't surprise Adelard - Lomin was the kind of person who could frighten his enemies with a glance while inspiring devotion in the hearts of his friends with the same look. That look was now directed stonily at the Orc leader, and the Man's dark eyes sparkled dangerously as he spoke.

"You have all the insolence and idiocy I would expect of one of your kind," Lomin said flatly, "That you dare to lay hands upon one of the King's subjects in the domain of Arnor! But no matter. No harm was done, as I see, and I will allow you to depart from here peacefully, provided you return my companion to me immediately."

Adelard suppressed a groan. Was Lomin really going to try and bluff their way out of this? The Big People were really impossible at times, especially times like this. Nor was the Hobbit the only one who seemed to have trouble taking Lomin seriously.

The Orc stared at Lomin in surprise, then burst into laughter. "Oh, will you?" he cackled, "How gracious of you! And supposing we don't want to leave, eh? Supposing we want to add some man-flesh to our little stew? What will you do then ... defeat us with your invisible sword?" And he laughed again. Seeing that Lomin bore no weapon, the other Orcs began to regain their courage, creeping closer with sneering grins on their faces. Adelard watched the situation nervously, wondering in frustration what Lomin thought he was doing and why the Man hadn't had the sense to stay away.

"Do you think you will add another dish to your horrid feast?" Lomin asked, seeming unperturbed by the ring of enemies closing in on him, "If you ever fill your belly again, it will be more than you deserve. You are a fool, but since you do not know what you are doing, perhaps I will overlook your stupidity this time. But stand out of my way now, or I assure you, you will regret it."

Lomin's words were quiet, but they cut through the goblin's howls like lightning through dark thunderclouds. The Man looked so menacing that the laughter around Adelard died off, and the Orcs looked uncertainly to their leader. The head Orc licked his lips, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he did not seem amused any longer.

"Who are you?" he growled, "What do you want here?"

"What do I want?" Lomin said in reply, "Many things, of course ... as for who I am, ask your masters, if you dare! They know me well enough, though perhaps they will not be willing to share all they know with you. But look, it seems your questions may be answered sooner than you thought! Here comes your lord!"

Lomin's last words were drowned out by howls of horror from the surrounding goblins. To Adelard's uttermost surprise, the Orcs scattered in all directions, except for their leader, who did not move so much as a muscle. The Hobbit got to his feet carefully, hope returning to him for the first time since he had seen the Orcs bearing down on him. What Lomin had done he did not know, but the way, for all he could see, was clear. Yet the Man did not greet him or make any move to flee, merely stood nonchalantly in his place, a half-smile playing across his lips.

"Lomin!" Adelard said, glancing quickly at the Orc leader and the other goblins, all cowering fearfully in the bushes around them, "What are you waiting for? Come on!"

Lomin made no reply whatsoever. Adelard took a step toward his friend, but he froze suddenly as he realized what it was that had frightened their captors enough to send them trembling into the underbrush. A wave of cold washed over him, quenching all his hope of escape in a chilly blast. He felt as though his heart were gripped by an icy hand. Mouth dry, he stared wide-eyed to the north.

Dust rose into the air from the dried-out autumn earth, raised by a large company speeding swiftly towards them. Even from this distance Adelard could tell who they were: Orcs, a much larger group than that which had caught him, and a great number of Dunlendings, who had allied themselves with the Witch-King. None of this, however, was what struck him with such dread. A black horse with a shadowy rider was galopping at their head, and fear flew before him like a deadly wind.

The wind rustled softly through the brightly coloured leaves of an apple tree standing peacefully upon the south side of Bree-hill, a good distance above the highest of the Hobbit-holes built into the hillside. The smell of apples was heavy in the air, and the dying red rays of the sun mingling with the orange and crimson leaves made a pleasant scene, had anyone been there to see it. But the inhabitants of Bree were about their business, and the only pair of eyes in the vicinity were fixed on the horizon and paid no attention to the flame-coloured foliage.

These eyes belonged to a Hobbit sitting in the upper branches of the tree, apparently lost in solitary thought. He - for it was a he - was a young Hobbit, barely past his coming-of-age, with curly black hair and grey eyes. At first glance there seemed to be nothing special about him, and only on closer examination would an observer have noticed the short sword that he held in his hands. It had been given to him by his father Adelard on his birthday, against all tradition, and he still did not quite know what to make of the strange gift.

"This is no ordinary sword, Tolman," Adelard had said to his son as he placed the weapon in his hands, "It's name is Nyéra, and there's magic in it for sure. It might come in handy, but use it carefully! Enchanted things are always odd, and I have the feeling this one is odder than most."

Odd was definitely the right word, Tolman Marchbank reflected, examining the blade for the umpteenth time. Its scabbard was of plain, dark leather, stained and hardened by age – in some places it even appeared stained by blood. What else could those dark, stiff patches be? That in itself was disturbing, and Tolman had already made a mental note to find a new scabbard for the thing as soon as possible. Old as its covering was, however, that was nothing compared to the age of the blade itself. Slowly, he drew the sword out of its scabbard, listening to the familiar grating of metal on leather.

The hilt firmly in his hand, he held the sword out at arm's length, examining it with a wondering eye. He knew little of the art of sword-fighting, being more inclined to wandering than weaponry. In fact, he spent so much time exploring the woods in and around Bree that his father had nicknamed him Trotter, declaring with a smile that he would one day be the first Hobbit-Ranger in Middle Earth, and therefore deserved an appropriate name. Yet even with his limited knowledge, Tolman knew that this sword was different. There could be none others like it in the world.

This blade did not gleam and shine like those of the Men of Bree, nor did it glow like some Elven weapons. It was a dark sword, its metal a deep, lightless black, though despite its dull colour and apparent age it was dangerously sharp. The hilt was pure black as well, of a material unfamiliar to Tolman; there was a single round stone set into it, cloudy and somber as the sky before a thunderstorm. Once Tolman had thought the mist within the stone moved, but it could easily have been a trick of his eyes.

Still, even Nyéra could not hold his attention for long. Tolman's gaze wandered to rest upon the East Road, the sword in his idle hands forgotten. He was thinking, quite understandably, about his father, whom he had not seen for far too long.

Three weeks before, the remnants of a traveling party of Dwarves had stumbled into Bree, bloodied and exhausted, gasping the tale of an assault of goblins out of Angmar. Their words were worrying, telling of Orcs nearly the size of men, and bold as never before, riding upon the backs of Wargs, with cold swords that gave poisoned wounds. It was not the first time that such news had reached Bree, and after much deliberation, the city council had decided to send out a reconnaissance party. Three men and one Hobbit had left the town the next day. Their leader, Lomin, was Tolman's closest friend, and their chief spy, the Hobbit, was none other than his father. No news had been heard of them since they departed, and people had begun to fear the worst.

Tolman kicked at a branch disconsolately, ignoring the quivering of the tree that sent red leaves drifting down to catch in his hair. He brushed them away impatiently, pulling the last one out of his black tangles and looking at it absently. The dark crimson shade reminded him of Lomin - his friend's hair was the same colour. Now, it brought to mind the first time he had spoken to the Dúnedan, all of five years ago ...

... He had been mighty pleased with himself for his cleverness, and could not help grinning insolently with excitement. Not that anyone was around to see it, but that was beside the point ... Tolman was alone beyond the eastern borders of Bree for the first time, and he was going to enjoy every moment of it.

He had gone with his father to Archet, to visit the Brushbars, some distant relatives of his mother, who had died when he was young. Archet was the furthest east of the settlements of Bree-land - how could he have resisted the temptation to step into the wild, dangerous lands so close by? He had stolen out of the Brushbar hole before dawn, careful not to wake anyone, and run all the way to the East Road. There he stood now, triumphantly confident. How far did he dare to go eastwards? The Witch-King had more power there than Arnor these days.

But even the Witch-King could not contend with Tolman Marchbank when he had his mind set on something, he thought stubbornly, and started to walk self-assuredly down the Road. He had a bow, after all - what could happen?

The weather was unpleasant; a cold wind blew and the sky was clouded. The sparse trees lining the road swayed and leaned threatening in the gale, making odd creaking noises. Tolman found his steps slowing, and sped up angrily. There was nothing to be afraid of, he told himself. Everyone was so scared of the wild lands that they wouldn't even leave Bree to find out what it was they were actually supposed to be frightened of. No wonder the Witch-King grew stronger every year, when everyone made it so easy for him! Well, he wasn't afraid, or at least not very much. Somebody had to do something, after all ...

Suddenly, Tolman stopped dead. He was no longer alone. There was a rider coming from the north, hurrying straight to where he was standing. And if someone came from the North, that could only mean one thing ...

He fumbled blindly for his bow as the wind whipped his hair into his eyes. What if it was one of the terrible Black Riders he had heard such awful stories about? What had he been thinking, to come out here by himself? His hands were cold and clumsy, but he finally managed to nock an arrow. Looking up quickly, he realized with dismay that the rider was much closer, and had almost reached the Road. Taking a hurried aim, he shot as well as he could with the wind and his own nerves working against him.

The arrow flew straight and true, to his own surprise, and for a moment his heart lifted. But then, with one smooth movement, the rider drew his sword and chopped the flying shaft in two. The harmless pieces of wood hurtled away to either side. Before Tolman could lift his bow once more, the stranger had reached him.

"Hold there, good fellow!" the rider cried, reigning in his horse. With immense relief, Tolman saw that it was a Man he faced, dressed in brown, not black, and looking rather amused if a bit perplexed.

"What's a Hobbit doing out here alone?" the Man continued, "And shooting at friends, no less!"

Tolman was so relieved that it did not occur to him to ask what the rider, for that matter, was doing alone in these lands. He lowered his bow and stared up at the Man, whose height and face marked him as one of the Dúnedain. His eyes were grey and his hair dark red.

"I was ... uh, I was going for a walk," Tolman answered sheepishly, "I guess I got a little lost."

"I guess so!" the Man replied, laughing, "It's not wise to stray in the eastern lands - one can get lost far too easily." He seemed to sober up at his own words, and looked at Tolman seriously. "What is your name, young Hobbit?" he asked.

"Tolman Marchbank," Tolman said, "What's yours?"

The Man seemed vaguely surprised at Tolman's frankness, but answered anyway. "I am Lominelen," he said, "Call me Lomin." Then he smiled again. "But come! This is an unpleasant place for a conversation. Let us go back to Archet! My horse can carry us both. Say, you're not a bad hand with a bow ..."

The faint sound of bugles startled Tolman out of his reverie. It was the evening call, signaling the closing of the shops and business in Bree. The shadows lay long on the ground beneath the trees, and he realized with a sinking heart that it would soon be dark – another day passed without news, another day further from hope, a hope now fading and barely sustained. He did not want to return to his hole on the lower slopes of Bree-hill, to face another night of nervous wakefulness. And yet, what else was there to do?

Adelard lay still with his eyes closed and tried to assess the situation. He was outside on his back on the ground, next to a tent wall, with hands and feet tied. It was night, of that much he was sure - it was cold and he couldn't feel any sunlight. He didn't know how long he had been unconscious, or what day it was, or where they were going. All in all, things looked bleak.

They had been travelling for several days, that he knew - several very unpleasant days of being carried on an Orc's back. It could be worse though - at least most of the time they carried him head upwards. He had caught a few stray glimpses of Lomin, who was kept as far away from him as the size of the company would allow. Considering that the stray band of Orcs had by this time grown to a small army, this was a fair distance. Still, Adelard had caught sight of the Man's russet head once in a while, and managed to pity Lomin despite being absorbed with his own problems. Lomin was being forced to run on foot within a tight guard of goblins, all of whom were only too eager to see him falter or stumble. In this, however, they were disappointed; Lomin did not tire, merely striding on easily as if it were his habit to run several forced marches a day.

But it was not the running or the discomfort of being around Orcs that had rendered Adelard unconscious and made him lose track of time. He repressed a shudder as a vision unfolded before his eyes of a tall, black figure with no face and metal gauntlets instead of hands. The Black Rider. He had thought they were only stories, tales spread by the Enemy to cow the free peoples with fear. It was said that they were the servants of the Witch-King, bound to him in will and obeying his every thought, appearing suddenly where they were least expected, so terrible that grown men cowered before them. But who they were and where they came from no one knew.

When the Black Rider had appeared, every Orc had crept obediently into his train, taking Adelard and Lomin with them. They had been tied and forced to join the march westwards. Adelard heard no word about their intended destination, but he had begun to suspect, and his suspicions grew ever stronger as they began to pass lands he knew well. From the back of an Orc, he tried to watch the country, gauge the size of the army and their competence, and keep an eye on Lomin as well as he could. Being a captive did not rob him of his skills ... but then everything had changed. It had been yesterday evening, or at least he thought it was yesterday, that they had taken him to the Black Rider.

He had not known where they were taking him, but from the look of cruel enjoyment on the faces of the two Orcs accompanying him, he had quickly deduced that it was not going to be a pleasant afternoon tea. They had wound through the coarse, grey tents set up in the goblin camp until they reached the largest one, a black monstrosity with a flag flying obscenely from the top. The flag was black as well, emblazoned with a red ring - the banner of the Witch-King. About this time Adelard had begun to wish himself desperately back onto the back of a running Orc, even head-downwards if need be.

The two Orc ushers had hustled him into the tent and withdrawn quickly. Inside, a single lamp hung from the ceiling, burning with bloody light and illumining the three figures standing around it. One was the Orc who had led the company that had found Adelard originally; the second was a short, swarthy Man unknown to him. The third was the black captain. As soon as he stepped inside, both the Orc and the Man started toward him with hands outstretched.

"Keep your paws away from him, Groga!" the Man snapped, glaring at the Orc, "Your clumsy claws can't handle this kind of work!"

"I found him, didn't I?" Groga growled in return, "You're getting above your station, human. Don't cross me or my boys, Hreiver, or you'll regret it yet!"

Hreiver seemed about to reply, but he was interrupted by an impatient movement by the Black Rider. Both Groga and Hreiver cut off abruptly and glanced fearfully at the tower-like figure. Then Groga leaped forward and grabbed Adelard roughly, pushing the unwilling Hobbit forward to stand before the Enemy's mightiest servant.

"Here he is, your Lordship," the Orc said, cringing, "The little squealer we picked up on our way."

Adelard did not dare to look up from the ground. The giant black figure loomed above him silently. The air seemed suddenly cold on his skin, as if he had been plunged without warning into icy water, and he felt what courage he had faltering swiftly.

Then the Rider spoke to him. He tried vainly to stop his ears to the sound; the harder he tried, the more it seemed to fill his head until he forgot where he was or who, and the voice was everywhere. It was a dead voice, flat and without emotion, so dry and smooth that it sent shudders down his spine. There was a hiss in like a snake slithering through dry leaves.

"Tell me what you know," the Rider voice whispered.

Adelard bit his lip without knowing it, his brain working frantically. Memories flashed through his mind. His deceased wife, his son, Bree, the Hobbit hole in the hill, the long leagues in the wilderness, every secret he knew ... what should he say first? What would the icy lord want to know, what would make that voice stop? He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He wanted desperately to speak, but something in him held back the words, something stubborn and angry.

"I..." He said with a trembling voice, "I, I ... I ..."

"You don't have to tell him anything," a calm voice said, cutting through the confusion in Adelard's head. The Hobbit whipped around in surprise, his eyes lighting on the source of the words. There was someone else in the tent after all; in the deep shadow of one corner a man was standing, half-slumped, tied to a make-shift post. Despite the dim light, Adelard had no trouble recognizing him.

"Lomin!" he said, half relieved and half horrified to see his friend,"What ..." But, finding he had nothing to say, his voice trailed off and he merely stared. From what he could tell, Lomin looked rather the worse for the wear; his face was bruised and fatigue was painted in every line on his face. His voice, however, was as cool and proud as ever.

"Don't tell him anything," Lomin repeated, "He's going to attack Bree, you see, and he wants all the information possible about the town. I told him he wouldn't get anything out of you, but he wouldn't believe me. Doesn't know much about Hobbits, obviously." Lomin grinned faintly, but he was not looking at Adelard; his eyes never left the Black Rider.

The Rider hissed angrily and the shadow around him seemed to grow darker. Groga and Hreiver trembled and backed away. Adelard 's gaze was pulled back unwillingly to the creature standing before him, hoping desperately and vainly that it had been enough, that they would become bored of him and send him back outside. Instead, the Black Rider stepped forward smoothly, reaching out one gauntleted hand. Adelard shrunk away with a cry, but his feet stumbled and he fell heavily to the ground. He stared up at the Rider, frozen in helpless fear, as the shadow-filled hood bent down towards him. He didn't want to look, didn't want to see what was inside that hood, but he could not look away. Everything seemed to be moving too slowly. It was like being in a dream, a nightmare where his worst fears closed in on him and he could not move no matter how hard he strained his muscles.

Unwillingly, he gazed into the black hood, like a bird caught by the hypnotic stare of a snake. Then he did the thing that was probably most prudent in the present situation; he fainted dead away.

And now he had awoken, after who knew how many hours of oblivion. He tried to shake off the awful memory, to shake off the strange cold that had descended on him then and sunk into his bones. He had to regain his strength somehow ... the Orcs were going to attack Bree. Trotter ...

Then he froze and held his breath as the voices of several Orcs broke the silence. It must have been quite late, since the camp was mostly quiet, but nevertheless, three voices were coming rapidly closer to where he lay. Scraps of the conversation came to his ears. He opened his eyes a slit, peering into the night. He was outside, in a lane between two tents. Sleeping Orcs lay around him; apparently not all of the creatures were willing to make even so much of a concession to civilization as to sleep in a tent.

He bit back a yelp as one of the "sleeping" goblins moved. So they had left one awake, to keep guard on him, most likely. The Orc had not noticed that he was no longer unconscious, luckily; he stood up and called hoarsely to the three voices Adelard had heard.

"What d'you think you're doing, eh? Trying to wake the bosses? They'll have your heads!" he said.

The conversation stopped abruptly, but a few seconds later three more goblins appeared from around the corner of the tent on Adelard's left. They were of the short, squat kind commonly found in the Misty Mountains, suited to the low tunnels they dig in the stone. When they saw the sentry, all three stopped in their tracks.

"Aww, leave off your whining!" said one, peering at the sentry, "You're just jealous because they stuck the watch duty on you. Not that the little creature could get up to much. I guess that's why they made you the sentry - you're not good for much else!"

All three laughed rudely, to the sentry Orc's great chagrin.

"Shut your flapping mouths!" he growled, "I don't need you telling me my job! You all just get where you belong. I hope they shoot you down tomorrow, too, cold stone dead!"

Tomorrow? Adelard's heard leaped. There was going to be shooting tomorrow, and that meant a battle ... were they so close to Bree? How long had he really been asleep?

"I'm thinking there'll be a lot less of us dead tomorrow than of them," said another of the short Orcs, "Everything's in our favour, you see - the boss cut a deal and it's all taken care of."

"What are you blabbering about?" said the sentry, unable to hide the curiosity in his voice, "Who'd he make a deal with?"

"Wouldn't you just like to know!" said the other sarcastically, "No, I think you'll just have to wait and find out! And we'll be back off to our tents!"

The three mountain Orcs grinned once more, jeeringly, at the sentry, then disappeared back into the night. The remaining goblin stared after them disgruntedly, muttering to himself. Adelard caught the words "upstarts" and "kill them myself" among the rest. Then, apparently resigning himself to his fate, the Orc sat back down, glancing at the Hobbit idly. His eyes widened suddenly in surprise, and too late, Adelard realized that his own eyes were open, and the Orc could probably see them even in the dark.

Before the goblin could move, however, a tongue of silver flashed through the night. With a gurgle, the Orc toppled to the ground, clawing futily at the knife stuck in its throat. After a few seconds, it lay still, and all was quiet again.

Shocked into stillness, Adelard lay as still as the dead Orc, wondering what had just happened. His question was quickly answered, however, when a dark shape stepped into his field of view. With a few strides, the figure was at his side, kneeling quickly in the lee of the tent. Another knife appeared in its hands, and it began to cut the bonds on Adelard's wrists and ankles.

"Shhh!" a familiar voice whispered, "A noise at this point could bring them all down on our heads, so I suggest you use all the stealth you Hobbits are capable of!"

"Lomin!" Adelard whispered in return, overjoyed, "You're a marvel! It's impossible! How did you manage it?"

"Later!" Lomin replied. Adelard could not make out the expression on the Man's shadowed face, but he sounded understandably tense. The last of the bonds fell off, severed in pieces, and Adelard stood up quickly with Lomin's help, moving his stiff arms and legs to get the blood flowing in them again.

"Come on!" Lomin said, "We're about twenty miles from Bree. They're going to attack after sundown tomorrow. We have to get there first!"

"What about ..." Adelard began to ask, but Lomin motioned him to silence. The Man started off into the darkness, and he followed without protest. The two of them slipped like shadows through the sleeping camp, and Adelard was far too busy trying to be as silent as possible to reflect on the mysterious ease of their escape.

A few minutes later, they passed the last of the tents and began to run over the plain towards the threatened town of Bree.

The Marchbank hole was dark and silent, seeming almost uninhabited in the late hours of the night. In fact, it was almost uninhabited. There was only one current resident, and he usually spent very little time at home. Now, however, he was sprawled in an armchair in the parlour, dozing the uneasy night away.

Tolman was still fully dressed, and Nyéra lay on a small table next to the chair. There was a fireplace across from the table, but no coals glowed there, and the room was dark. The room, and for that matter, the entire hole, was in rather a state of disorder; Tolman had been much too worried and distracted in the last few weeks to pay much attention to the condition of the house. This was not the first time he had fallen asleep in his clothes in a chair, nor the first time his sleep had been troubled by dreams ...

... He crouched silently under a wagon in the market square, watching the proceedings with great interest. Usually the market bustled with the colours and sounds of business, filled with neat kiosk-stands, the calls of shopping housewives, all types of farm animals, and fascinating items for sale. Now, however, the silence was broken only by the clatter of wooden swords and the excited murmurs of the crowd.

It was summer, and Bree was filled with strangers, gossip, commerce, and entertainment of all sorts. The town market was usually crowded anyway, but today it was filled to the bursting, except for a cleared space in the middle where the contestants in the sword-fighting tournament pitted their skills against one another.

Tolman had found it impossible to get near the front and so had taken refuge under the wagon, where he could at least see some of the action through the forest of legs in front of him. He twisted his neck, trying to get the best possible view, for the match he had come to see was starting now.

"Say goodbye to your reputation!" the first swordsman said gaily, twirling his sword agily in his hand. He grinned, the sunlight flashing on his white teeth. He was a good-looking young man, with sandy brown hair and eyes and a good-natured look to him; his name was Alwin and he was the mayor's son, well-known and well-liked in town. Tolman believed Alwin was probably a good hand with a sword, but he was still convinced the young man would lose this match.

"If you can rid me of some of the less savoury parts of my reputation, I'll be grateful to you," Alwin's opponent joked wryly in return. He was a Man as well, and though he stood with his back to Tolman, the Hobbit would have recognized him anywhere: it was Lomin. He looked perfectly relaxed, which was not surprising - Lomin was widely known as the best swordsman for miles around.

A whistle sounded, the sign for the match to begin, and Tolman held his breath in excitement. Alwin and Lomin began to circle each other carefully; Alwin practically radiated energy and readiness, while Lomin seemed as cool and untouched as an icicle. Suddenly, the two of them leaped at each other, almost simultaneously, and -

"So this is where you are," someone said, interrupting Tolman's thoughts. Distracted, he glanced to his right. His father was sitting cross-legged next to him, seemingly oblivious to the events taking place in the market.

"Hello, Da!" Tolman said, "Look, Lomin's sparring! I bet Isa Elmtwig a silver penny that he'll win. What a joke! Lomin never loses, and he won't now, no matter how good everyone thinks Alwin is ..."

But Adelard seemed not to have heard a word of what his son said. He simply shook his head slightly and sighed.

"The Big People," he said, "Always fighting, even in times of peace ... the shadow touched them too early."

"What?" Tolman asked, confused. He didn't understand what his father was talking about; it wasn't like Adelard to speak like this. Furthermore, at the moment he was far more interested in the match than in listening to the vague assertions of his father, who was obviously in a philosophical mood. Instead of answering, the older Hobbit merely pointed back toward the sparring ring. Wondering why his father was so melancholy, Tolman looked back at the contestants.

In his shock, he forgot to cry out. He tried to jump up but hit his head on the wagon-bed and sat back down abruptly. His head spun dizzily, but the picture before his eyes did not change. Lomin stood alone in the ring now, and the sword in his hand was no longer wood but steel. It was covered with blood; at the Man's feet lay a body. Tolman tried not to look. He did not want to see the tanned young face of Alwin, frozen in death.

"But it was supposed to be a game!" he cried, turning back to Adelard. But the place next to him was empty. He was alone again. Dread weighing on his heart, he looked back at the sparring ring. Lomin was still there, but someone else had taken Alwin's place. Adelard stood there, looking small and very obviously unarmed. Lomin began to circle around the Hobbit now, to Tolman's extreme dismay. He tried to rush to his father, but a wall of bodies held him back as surely as stone would have. He dropped to his knees and started to crawl through the crowd.

"Lomin!" he shouted, "Stop! What are you doing?"

Lomin did not seem to have heard him. The Man continued to close in on Adelard, who made no move to escape or defend himself. The older Hobbit looked impassively at his son.

"I told you," he said wearily, "The shadow is on them. All roads lead to darkness now ..."

Tolman shrieked and closed his eyes reflexively as Lomin's sword slashed through the air. There was a dull thud, and then Bree's trumpets began to blow, sounding the ancient danger signal ...

... Tolman started awake, realizing he had fallen out of his chair. He shook his head, trying to clear the disturbing dream from his mind. Slowly, he got his feet, feeling around in the dark room for a lamp. It seemed to have moved, or perhaps he was still too confused by the dream and the horns ringing in his head to think clearly.

Only then did he realize that the horns really were sounding. They were blowing a series of high notes that every citizen of Bree knew and recognized as a warning. Tolman listened carefully, hardly able to comprehend what his ears told him. It was the attack signal - Bree was under attack! Forgetting about lighting the lamp, Tolman grabbed his sword, buckling it swiftly onto his back - it was too long to hang comfortably at his side - and hurried through the dark rooms to the front door.

The horns blew ever more urgently as he opened the door and ran into the night. He paused for a moment in the front yard. Other sounds came to his ears now; cries and shouts, whistles and screams, and other ominous signs that all was not well. He listened carefully, then leaped into motion, running full tilt along the road towards the East Gate.

In a second he had reached Crown Road, a narrow, dusty street, the first leading from the Hill where the Hobbit-holes were to the town. It was bordered by smaller houses of Men, with occasional flower-pots in the windowsills, now mostly bare and dry, brittle yellow in color. The houses melted into the night around Tolman as he ran by heedlessly. He did not know exactly why he was running or what he would find, and he did not spend energy thinking about it. He had only one vague goal: to get to the East Gate.

Ahead of Tolman, a street corner became distinguishable. There Crown Road crossed Haven Street, which would take him straight to the eastern wall within a few minutes. Too excited to be tired, he sped up as much as possible, a barely visible shadow flying toward the street corner.

Unfortunately, at that moment someone stepped out from the corner of Haven, right into his to stop, Tolman crashed into the obstacle at full-tilt, sending the innocent passerby reeling into the dust of the street. Panting, he slid to a stop. For a moment he turned, meaning to run on - it hardly seemed important at the moment whether he ran into someone or not. But Tolman was a proper Hobbit and had been brought up to be polite. Accordingly, he grimaced and, quelching his impatience, hurried back to help whomever he had knocked over. When he saw who it was, however, he could hardly restrain himself from turning and leaving without another word.

A girl, too large to be a Hobbit and too small to be of the race of Men lay blinking in the dust at his feet. He knew her by sight, though they had never spoken; she was Anna Applethorn, child of a Man and a Hobbit, though now deprived of both parents. Intermarriage between the races was not looked upon favorably despite the friendship between the peoples . . . and Anna was notorious with the town gossips for her unruly appearance and reputation as a liar and thief, and generally avoided by Men, Hobbits, and Dwarves alike. Reluctantly, Tolman offered her his hand, clenching his jaws slightly as he spoke:

"I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to knock you over. I'm in a bit of a hurry, you see, and I just didn't notice you . . ."

The girl just stared at him with wide open green eyes.

"Look, are you going to get up or not?" Tolman asked in annoyance, aching to be away. The horns rang once again through the town, which by now was fully awake and in motion. Lights began to glow in the windows of the houses on the road, and a few doors opened, expelling their sleepy inhabitants onto the street.

Still no answer, just the same startled, though fearless gaze. Tolman was reminded strangely of a doe he had once seen in the Chetwood. The animal had looked at him with the same expression, not of fear, but of surprised recognition, though it's eyes had been large and brown, not dark green. Shaking off the odd memory, he shrugged, and without another word turned and hurried off down the road. He had no time to waste.

Anna stared after the young Hobbit with the dark sword as he disappeared into the deepening shadows. Dust smudged her face and hands; her palms stung where she had braced herself against the fall. He had been arrogant; he had looked down on her like what she was, a homeless half-breed. But she was not angry.

Anna did not know the dark young Hobbit's name, but she did know that before the night was over, all the arrogance would be shaken out of him and he would save her life.

"Close the gate!" Lomin cried.

Adelard stood gasping at the Man's side. They had reached Bree in time, just after nightfall, but it had taken all his strength to keep up with his long-legged companion. He felt exhausted enough to sleep where he fell, be it a battlefield even. He grimaced at the thought. In all likelihood it would be a battlefield before long.

The East Gate clanged shut behind them, and Lomin turned away, shouting commands at the Guardsmen manning the walls and the ones arriving, awakened by the horns. The Orcs had been sighted; Lomin and Adelard had barely made it back to Bree before the attacking army.

The bugles and accompanying shouts rang glaringly in Adelard's ears. Where was Trotter? If he had heard the horns, he would be on his way here for sure.

Guardsmen of all shapes and size rushed by him. Adelard felt rather useless; he was a spy, not a soldier. Lomin had disappeared, probably to the East Tower. No matter; in a moment he would go and look for his son. But for now he merely slipped out of the way of the Guard, taking cover in the lee of the wall.

He sat down tiredly, leaning against the cold stone. Just for a minute, then he would go find Tolman ...

Tolman dashed into the small square before the East Tower, the strongest fortified point on the eastern part of the wall, next to the Gate itself. He stopped there, rooted to the spot in surprise and horror. The square was filled with Men and Dwarves and Hobbits, most of them half-dressed but all of them carrying weapons and all of them running towards the wall. The ramparts were already filled with men, and the hiss and twang of bowstrings filled the air.

The scene was lit by torches on the walls, and by fires that had broken out on the nearby houses, started by burning arrows shot by the attackers. Despite this, Tolman could not make out what exactly was happening on the wall. The attackers remained hidden, and he could not tell who had the upper hand.

He took a step forward and was nearly bowled over by a Dwarf rushing blindly by. He grabbed reflexively at the passing figure, his hands catching in something soft.

"Ah!" the Dwarf yelped, "That's my beard! Let go!"

"Sorry!" Tolman said, "What happened? Who's attacking?"

The Dwarf paused for a moment, squinting at Tolman in the faint fire-light. The Hobbit suddenly realized that he knew this Dwarf; his name was Navri. He was young, with a bright red beard, and a friendly enough fellow in the gruff manner of Dwarves.

"Tommy!" he said, finally recognizing Tolman "Come to help out? They need every hand, or so I hear! It's Orcs from Angmar, what do you think? And ..." his voice sank to a fearful whisper, "They say there's a Black Rider leading them!"

With these words, Navri reclaimed his beard from Tolman's grasp and hurried on. For a moment Tolman only stared after him. Orcs? Black Rider? Bree, under attack? It seemed so impossible ... though the Witch-King had been a constant danger as long as he could remember, he had always thought of his hometown as, well, invincible. He looked up at the wall, and caught his first glimpse of the enemy. His lungs felt painfully constricted. A group of Orcs had managed to make it up a ladder and onto the ramparts, where they were waging a bitter battle with the defenders.

Setting his jaw in determination, Tolman pulled his sword from his sheath and followed after Navri to the nearest stairway that would take him to the top of the wall. He felt as if there was nothing else he could do, really. He thought of Lomin and his father, who had disappeared without a trace into the shadow of the Witch-King, and hot anger awoke in him. He began to run again.

Still, it was with wavering heart that he climbed the stairwell to the ramparts to face the shadow and fire.

It was indeed shadow and fire that met the gaze of Tolman Marchbank as he looked out beyond the walls of night was dark, but the torches of the army standing before the walls burned red. It was an army; or a horde, a sea of dark faces and darker purposes serving a black master. There were Orcs, and Wargs, and Men as well, Men who had heeded the words of the Witch-King and his promises and sold him their services and their souls. And now they had come for Bree, which had not bowed to the dark lord and so earned his everlasting hatred.

Spreading out before the wall of the town was a long line of leering, snarling, twisted Orc faces, hidden sometimes by rough armor, but more often bare, tainting the cool autumn night with foulness. Behind the first line stood another, and yet another, fading away into the darkness behind until body and night became one indistinguishable blackness. Their number seemed distressingly large, and the sight of the eagerness upon their faces for blood and booty made Tolman shiver. But they were outside the town, and the walls were high and strong; it would take more than ugly faces, he thought resolutely, to take Bree.

Ladders were thrown against the walls and cast off again as quickly. The few Orcs who had made it over had been killed, and now that the ramparts were fully manned, the enemy was finding it difficult to break the line of defenders. But not all went according to the wishes of the Bree-folk; the Witch-King's army was not helpless or unskilled.

Tolman stood frozen, sword forgotten in his hand, his mind slowly filling with horror and pity and sadness. Time seemed to slow around him, while his senses grew more keen; he saw in terrible detail an arrow slice through the neck of a Man, a burning ball of tar strike the breast of a Hobbit – was that Falco Took? - setting flesh and clothing ablaze. Stones were catapulted over the wall, crashing into the nearer houses of the town behind. Some burst into flame as they impacted, lighting the night with a lurid glare. An Orc face appeared over the rampart, and was cut down; more followed, but none yet were upon the wall.

How long he stood there, behind the battle, watching and helpless to move, Tolman could not tell. It seemed only a moment, but an ageless moment, in which time stands still, frozen in the same place for an eternity. A red moment it was, dark and bloody, and Tolman was powerless to escape it, stricken with a horror heretofore unknown. What use in fighting? There were so many of them ...

Tolman, however, was unused to battle and did not fully understand what took place around him. Despite the advantage of surprise, the attack was not succeeding; even this large of a force could not take the walls of Bree, fully manned. Already the Orcs were breaking, pulling away from the walls and crowding toward the gate as if trying to shelter in the doorway. In vain, for there they became easy targets for boiling cauldrons of tar and water from above . . . Yet even this move was not without dark design. The tools of the Witch-King were many, and not all so tangible as swords and arrows.

Tolman, half in a daze, turned away from the scene of blood before him, and so it was he and only he among the defenders who saw the door opening on the doom of Bree. For below and to his right, the great wheel of the gate was moving, and the Gate of Bree was opened from within by the hand of treachery ...

Adelard watched in disbelief as the Gate opened. He had not moved from his spot next to the wall, and had in fact begun to doze, only to be startled awake by a horrendous screeching sound. He had leaped to his feet, knowing the sound for what it was - he had heard it only a half hour ago, when he and Lomin had arrived. It was the gate hinges. The Gate was opening!

But that wasn't the worst of it. Adelard stepped haltingly out of the shadow of the wall, his eyes lighting in disbelief on the bodies of the few guards that had remained here, slain silently by the same traitorous hand that was responsible for the opening of the Gate.

Adelard watched the retreating figure of the traitor in disbelief. Quickly, he stooped and picked up the sword of one of the fallen guards. It was too large for him, but he hardly noticed. Heedless of the battle on the walls, he began to run stumbling after the man-shape as it fled back into the town.

At that moment, the Orcs burst through the gate and into Bree, and he found himself facing the invading army alone.

Anna crept silently through the shadows behind the Prancing Pony, clutching a thin dagger to her chest with trembling fingers. She had no idea now to use the thing, but when Orcs broke into your home, she found it rather prudent to have some sort of weapon at hand. How they had broken in was a question she did not want to contemplate right now; how they would be driven out was the business of others. Though it mattered little if they succeeded or not; how much worse could the life of a captive of Angmar be than that of an outcast of humanity? They was no more joy in one than in the other, and even death should be an indifferent thought, holding little threat. But Anna was young, and youth can not give up the wine of life, be it sweet or bitter, with a hardened heart. She was afraid, and she felt that she should hide; she should climb the Hill or flee into one of the Hobbit-holes with the other women and children of Bree.

Still, something held her back. One thought kept floating to the top of her mind no matter how much she tried to repress it. After flitting silently across the courtyard of the Prancing Pony, Anna took a deep breath, and leaned against the wall of the stable, clutching the hilt of the dagger until her knuckles turned white. Someone had opened the gate, and she had seen who it was.

After the Hobbit with the dark sword who had knocked her down hurried off into the night shadows, Anna had followed, drawn by a conviction stronger than caution or fear that she must see what was to come. Hidden in the shade of the towering ramparts, she had seen him climb to the ramparts; seen the start of the attack; seen the opening of the gate. And she saw clearly before her now the face that belonged to the traitor. As soon as the gate was open, the figure had turned and vanished into the night. But not fast enough, for she had followed in its footsteps, plucking the dagger from the waist of a corpse – a Dwarf, fallen from the battlements.

She had followed the traitor here to the stable of the Prancing Pony. Now she crouched in the shadows, undecided, shivering.

Why had she followed? What did she care about treachery in Bree? What did she care about ... him? It was no business of hers. They hated her, and she cared nothing for them. There was nothing she could do anyway, an orphan girl with no strength of her own and no friends to help her. What made her risk her life for this?

Not like her life was worth anything anyway, a voice whispered in her mind.

Grimacing bitterly, she pushed open the door of the stable and stepped inside.

His ears ringing, Tolman lay stunned on the cold earth. For a moment he floated in a vague grayness, devoid of memory and feeling. Then in a flash of light everything came back to him ... he raised his head slowly, looking up at the battlement from which he had fallen, pushed by the momentum of a staggering, arrow-struck Man. Every bone in his body ached, and he was chilled by the cold air and the earth.

Pushing himself up with immense effort, he saw what he had never thought he would see: the Orcs were inside Bree.

They poured through the gate like a black wave, faceless, soulless, a hating sea of death desiring only to wash away everything in its path with blood. For a moment he was stricken with an urge to run - whether away to safety or into the middle of the attacking force, he wasn't quite sure. Then he saw the defenders throwing themselves against the onslaught, and among them, a familiar face.

"Da!" he cried in relief and joy, running out from the shadow of the wall to join the defending line. Nyéra was in his hand, though he hardly noticed the weapon and had no thoughts of using it. The sword was like a ghost in the night, a spot of vagueness that could have killed before it was seen, had it been wielded with deadly intent. Orcs and Men, Hobbits and Dwarves fought and fell around him, but Tolman saw none of the carnage of battle. Like a shadow he slipped through the storm of death, and the Orcs did not even notice his passing, so dark and silent was he. But he had eyes only for his father.

Adelard fought alone, eyes and sword flashing alike. Man-like he looked, not Hobbit-like, for in that moment a fire awoke in him that does not often kindle in the hearts of the Little People. He was thin and haggard, and his hair that had been black as Tolman's own now shone pure white. He looked tired, incredibly tired, and much older than Tolman remembered him. Blood drenched him, whether his own or that of others, Tolman could not tell. But a few more steps and they would be at one another's side ...

An Orc loomed in his path, a spiteful grin on its face, blocking Tolman's view of his father. With a shout, he slashed at the creature on impulse, but the Orc had been prepared, and parried the untutored stroke. It laughed, broken teeth glinting.

"Silly thing!" It hissed, startling him into stillness. Orcs did not usually talk to him, and he was rather surprised, in fact, that they could talk. He had always assumed that such hideous creatures must be devoid of intelligence; but it was not so, for the Orcs have a cunning that is greater than their appearance belies.

"You're fighting on the wrong side," It cackled, and seeing Tolman's look of revolted confusion, laughed harder. "So you don't know? He made a deal with the Boss! Sold you all out, he did!"

The Orc might easily have finished Tolman then and there, so stunned was he, had not the sword of Adelard Marchbank intervened to save the life of his son. The Orc fell without a sound, head severed from its shoulders, revealing the Hobbit standing behind. The eyes of father and son met, but as Tolman began to cry a welcome, his words died on his lips and he merely stared at his father in horror. The sword fell from Adelard's trembling hands, and Tolman nearly dropped his as well. There was an arrow bristling from the older Hobbit's left side, and his face was pale and cold, colored only by dark streaks of blood. Tolman caught him awkwardly as he staggered and fell to one knee.

"Trotter . . ." whispered Adelard urgently, eyes already darkening with death, " . . . New Year's Eve." He coughed and gripped Tolman's hand.

"What?" Tolman said helplessly, "No ... Da, I don't understand ..."

Then Adelard Marchbank gathered what strength remained to him and spoke strongly for the last time.

"On New Year's Eve ... the tale will be one of tears. Don't trust ... " Adelard's voice trailed off.

"Don't trust who? What's on New Year's Eve?" Tolman asked desperately. But Adelard did not answer.

Tolman crouched dumbly by his dead father's side. All his senses seemed to have died as well; he did not hear the shouts and screams around him, or see the Orcs being driven finally shrieking out of Bree, or share in the victory of the Guard of Bree. With numb fingers, he unhooked the brooch of the Guard from his father's tunic – a white tree surrounded by seven stars it was, symbol of the Kings of Westernesse. Then, putting it into his pocket, he stumbled to his feet and fled into the darkness.

The night was still now, though Tolman felt as if the rushing of all the rivers of the world were in his ears. His feet thudded on the dirt road, leading him to he knew not where – anywhere, just away from the battlefield. He didn't know what to think, and so he busied himself with not thinking as best as he could. He felt like the night himself, dark and cold and empty, and that was much better for the moment than facing reality.

A beam of light fell on his face and Tolman stopped, blinking. He stood at the entrance to the courtyard of the Prancing Pony. The light came from the stables to his right – one of the doors stood partly open. As if in a dream, Tolman walked towards it, clutching the hilt of his sword. Dread gripped him, though he knew not why . But grief had made him reckless, and he had no fear.

When he stepped through the rough wooden door of the stable, however, the sight that met his eyes drove all other thoughts from his mind.

Anna Applethorn stood in the center of the corridor between the stalls, facing Tolman. Her eyes widened – in surprise or relief? – as she saw him. A few feet to her left lay a dagger, clean and sparkling in the yellow straw. In front of her feet was a hastily dug hole. Facing her, with his back to Tolman, was a Man, swathed in a large, dark brown cloak, holding a crossbow fixed on the girl standing in front of him. It took Tolman only a minute to take this in, and the Man was already turning to see what had caught Anna's attention.

The Hobbit found himself looking into the grim face of Lomin, his closest friend. The Man of the West raised the crossbow to his shoulder, aiming it unwaveringly, straight at Tolman's heart.


	2. The Blood of Broken Friendship

Anna's scream, Lomin's eyes, and the head of a black arrow bored into Tolman before he could so much as gasp in surprise. He was hurled against the doorframe behind him and tumbled powerlessly to the floor. Stars swam before his eyes, and he almost forgot to breathe, but then the world clicked back into focus in front of him. Blinking away a feeling of disorientation, he tried to look around the stable, half-lit by a single lantern. The view that met his eyes was not an encouraging one.

Tolman lay sprawled on the stable floor, half leaning against the door frame. He had dropped Nyéra and it lay now some feet away from him beyond his reach. Just outside the circle of lantern-light, crouching half-standing against a stall door, huddled the dishevelled person of Anna, hugging one arm to herself. Tears were running down the girl's face, and her teeth were tightly clenched, but she did not seem to be hurt. Remembering the scream he had heard, Tolman guessed that she had thrown herself at Lomin to prevent the blow and had been cast away like a dog. Perhaps this was the reason that an arrow now stuck in the wall behind him and not in his heart ...

Blood was trickling down his neck. He raised his hand gingerly to the wound - there was a long cut on the left side of his neck, and it was bleeding profusely. Tolman swallowed. Two inches to the right and he would have joined his father by now. The thought was more painful than the wound. All pain was forgotten, though, in the wave of anger that swept over him. He glared at Lomin, fury and disbelief warring within him equally.

The Man's face was very white, and the crossbow now dangled limply from one hand at his side. He was staring rigidly down at Tolman, but there was no expression on his face.

"Tom," he said finally, sounding almost exasperated, "Of all the people in the world, you had to walk through that door. I could've killed you ..."

"You almost did kill me!" Tolman said hotly, struggling to his feet. He stumbled forward. Blood dripped from his throat, forming a small pool on the floor. "What are you doing, anyway?" he asked.

Lomin looked at Anna, who said nothing. She seemed too frightened to speak, and Tolman couldn't blame her; Lomin's gaze was killer, and he doubted if he could have met it himself.

"I followed this here from the gate," Lomin said contemptuously, "After she opened it. She let the Orcs in, and the blood of Bree-folk is on her hands."

"But I - !" Anna protested, taking a step forward. Then she flinched away from Lomin's eyes and fell silent.

"She opened the Gate ... ?" Tolman asked after a moment, doubtful, "Why would she do that? I don't understand this ..."

"Isn't it obvious?" Lomin said, "An outcast, hated by all, finally gets a chance to have her petty revenge. Oh, I doubt she was in league with them; the Witch-King doesn't deal with pathetic creatures like this. But she made use of the attack to inflict what harm she could. Then she came here, to steal a horse, I suppose, and escape while she could. At least she will not get away with the deed, now. The Guard will take care of her."

Anna was shaking her head, looking more stunned than anything else. "I didn't do it!" she said, sputtering in indignation and forgetting to be frightened, "I didn't!"

Tolman looked at her skeptically. It would not surprise him if she really were the traitor, and everything that Lomin had said about her was true. But ... he couldn't understand, then, why she would have stopped Lomin from shooting him, albeit accidentally. Something didn't quite fit - he just couldn't decide what.

"I didn't do it," Anna repeated. She swallowed, looking both nervous and angry. "It was him!" She pointed at Lomin. "I followed him here! He opened the Gate! He's the traitor!" She glared at Lomin poisonously, her eyes shining with the light of the lantern.

"Are you accusing me?" Lomin said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I'm afraid you'll have to do better than that for the Guard. I doubt they'll be convinced, even by such a touching display of sincerity..."

"You have to believe me," Anna said, speaking to Tolman now, "I was there, I saw it. He opened the Gate and then ran away. When I got here, he took away my dagger, and told me to dig in the middle of the floor ..." She pointed at the hole behind Lomin with muddy hands, "There's something he wants buried there!"

Lomin didn't even bother to answer, just sighed and looked bored. He crossed his arms and shook his head slightly, his red hair falling over his face.

"He's working for the Witch-King ... he'll betray everyone to the dark lord ..." Anna said insistently. It was obvious, however, that Tolman did not particularly believe her, and there was no one else to appeal to. She stopped talking finally, and began to back slowly away from them until her back hit the stall door behind her. Her eyes flicked nervously from Man to Hobbit. She was caught in a trap, and there did not seem to be a way out.

"I hope you've finished your ludicrous tirade," Lomin said, "So that we can leave this filthy stable and my friend can have his wound seen to." He turned to Tolman, looking rather regretful. "I must admit, I thought you were an Orc - "

"He tried to kill you!" Anna shouted in a last attempt to assert her innocence.

Lomin threw up his hands in exasperation. And it was then that Tolman saw it.

For a moment he thought he must be hallucinating. His ears rang, whether from loss of blood or sheer astonishment he did not know. Lomin still held the crossbow in his right hand, so that the palm was not visible. But his left hand was streaked with black smears of grease, of the kind that is commonly used on gate-wheels to keep them from squeaking when the gate is opened.

"Lomin ..." Tolman said, "There's something on your hand."

A flicker of confusion passed over Lomin's face, and for the first time he seemed not completely sure of himself. He gazed at the smears of black on his palm as if seeing them for the first time. Then he looked at Tolman, and his face darkened, as if some inner door had slammed to shut out the light, or perhaps the light had been quenched.

"Battles are rarely clean," he said with narrowed eyes, "Yes, my hands are dirty. If you are suggesting that that is proof that I am a traitor, then I believe we must get you to a doctor immediately. Apparently my misguided arrow damaged more than your skin."

"I'm not suggesting anything," Tolman said, "You're the one whose hands are smeared with gate grease, and you're the one who tried to shoot me. I would be dead if it weren't for Anna. Why would she save my life if she were a traitor?"

"Am I responsible for the deeds of a half-breed?" Lomin countered, "She is probably as deranged as she is immoral. And you are a fool to believe her. Why would I betray Bree?"

"My father died tonight." Tolman said, ignoring the question, "He was your companion, and I counted you as my closest friend. Swear to me by your honour and by our friendship that it is not your fault he is dead, and I will believe you."

Lomin said nothing. Instead, he drew his sword slowly from its sheath. The blade glittered in the lantern-light as the Man looked down at Tolman with cold, hard eyes. And for the first time, the idea occurred to Tolman that he and Anna were alone with the best swordsman in the land, and it was unlikely that anyone was close enough to hear them if they called.

"You were always far too clever for a Hobbit," Lomin said, "And far too bold. Why did you have to join the battle, Tom? Why didn't you stay in your hobbit-hole like any sensible person would? I am sorry about Adelard, and sorry about this too. But if this is how it must be ..."

Tolman's breath caught in his throat as Lomin stepped forward. There was a soft crunch as he set his foot on the ground. The Man glanced down, then stared, frozen where he stood.

He stood with one black boot in the pool of Tolman's blood.

It was a moment Trotter never forgot, though he often wished to, horrible as it was. The lantern hanging from one of the stall doors only half-lit the stable; the floor, brown earth and scattered yellow straw, and the plain wooden walls were clear in the dim light, while the ceiling faded upwards into shadow. Golden shone Anna's tumbled hair, while he himself stood in twilight. In the center stood Lomin, tall, deadly, lost, and the blood of friendship betrayed washed his feet.

One moment only it was; then a horse whickered nervously, and the silence shattered like a glass of crystal.

With a cry, Anna leaped to her feet and threw herself towards Lomin. For a second, Tolman thought she was going to attack the Man, but he was mistaken. At the last minute, the girl hurled herself to the floor behind him instead, next to the hole in the ground that Tolman had noticed when he first stepped into the stable. Lomin twisted around, cursing, but surprise slowed him, and Anna had already snaked her arm into the hole before he could react.

"Stop!" Lomin cried, " Do not touch the Starflower! They have claimed it!" Quick as a whip, he lunged after the girl with his sword.

But Anna had already rolled away; the blade struck only air. As she staggered to her feet, Tolman saw that she held a small wooden box.

"Come and take it if you can," she said, and the box sprung open in her muddy hands.

Tolman gasped, forgetting pain and grief in sheer wonder. The lamp light sparkled brightly on a silver necklace, wrought in the shape of a seven-petaled flower and set with a white stone in the center. It did not glow itself, but reflected the light in a myriad of colours, throwing spots of silver and gold and red around it like tinted stars.

Lomin shrugged. "As you wish," he said, and raised his sword.

Anna bent swiftly and scooped up something from the floor of the stable. It was Nyéra, Tolman's sword, left forgotten where he had dropped it. In the presence of the Starflower, it seemed doubly dark; a twilit blade. So stood Anna, star in one hand, shadow in the other, and now she did not look like an orphan, or a homeless child. Her face was set, and her eyes clear.

Lomin only laughed and brought down his mighty sword.

But before the sword could bite its small victim, Lomin cried out in pain, and forgetting all weapons, clutched at his hand. For Tolman, with a strength he did not know remained in him, had picked up from the ground Anna's forgotten dagger, and leaping forward had cut the index finger from Lomin's right hand.

The Man howled in pain and disbelief; blood dripped from his hand, mingling with Tolman's own on the earthen floor, the blood of broken friendship. But Tolman still heard a sound that brought his heart into his mouth - the sound of footsteps outside, of many feet hurrying toward the stable.

"Run, fool!" he cried to Anna, raising the dagger in his hand and keeping his eyes fixed on Lomin.

Anna hesitated for a moment, looking confused, then thrust the Starflower into her pocket. Tolman watched as she ran out the door and disappeared into the night, then turned back to Lomin.

The dagger trembled in Tolman's hand, as he looked at Lomin standing hunched over before him. Their eyes met, grey and grey. Then Tolman dropped the dagger and covered his face with his hands as the Guard of Bree burst into the stable. So it was that he did not see Lomin straighten up, recovering quickly from his shock, and motion to the six Men who now stood around them.

"What - ?" Tolman cried, as his arms were seized. He stared up at the Men holding him, then looked at Lomin with dawning understanding.

"This Hobbit," the red-headed Dúnedan said, "Is a traitor and responsible for the deaths of more of our folk than I like to think about. Take him to the gaol and leave him there until the Mayor decides what to do with him."

The Man to Tolman's right cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, that's impossible, sir."

"What? Why?" Lomin asked suspiciously.

"The Mayor is dead, sir. He was killed by the Orcs, and so was most of the council and the Captains. Those that aren't dead are injured and not likely to live for much longer ... except for you. You are the highest ranking official left, and Bree is in your hands, sir. And if I may say so, I'm happy to serve under you, sir!"

Lomin bowed his head thoughtfully and walked slowly out the door. Tolman might have laughed at the bitter irony of the moment, had he not been beyond caring.

Anna sat with her back against a tree trunk, deep in thought. This was a habit of hers, though few who knew her would have believed it. Nor would they have believed that she had a conscience; but she did indeed, and she was wrestling with it now.

Anna was not a heroic person. She was an orphan; her family, her heritage, her very age were mysteries to her. She remembered the death of her mother when she was very young; after that she had lived in an orphanage in Tharbad, a city on the banks of the Greyflood. In the spring of this year, she had left Tharbad and wandered into Bree, where she had been living in a wood-shed belonging to a kindly old Hobbit who did not seem to notice her presence, to her great satisfaction. Much of Bree considered her a vagabond, liar, and thief - none of which accusations were completely unfounded. Her appearance did not help; though her curly hair was a pleasant golden wheat color and her eyes clear green, she was thin, with a sharp face, and an air of awkwardness; she also wore a rather unbecoming Dwarven raiment, which was the only vestment fitting her stature.

And then of course, she was a Manling: half Man, half Hobbit. Although there was friendship between the two peoples in Bree, intermarriage was considered to be going too far. A child of such a union caused only uneasiness, and Anna did not know of any others like herself. People did not like her, and so she disliked them in return. She preferred hiding to fighting, and solitariness to company.

But now something had intruded on her isolation; or rather, she had involved herself in something beyond her closed world.

Anna tilted back her head, leaning it against the tree trunk behind her. Through the leaves rustling softly in the night breeze above, she could see the sky and the constellation of Menelvagor. There was a smell of apples in the air. Though she did not know it, Anna sat under the same tree that had been the hidden abode of Tolman only a day before. Her thoughts, however, were far different from what his had been.

There were two voices in her mind; one counselled her to return to the town, to seek out the Hobbit who had saved her life, to thank him, and give him back his sword and the necklace she still carried with her as well. The other, and stronger, spoke of waiting in hiding and, when chance allowed, a silent escape beyond the walls of Bree and to freedom far away from the disturbing events of the night. Anna was afraid, and her first instinct was to flee; and yet, it seemed to her that more was required of her, that there was something else she should do instead.

She hugged her knees to her chest and, shivering slightly, opened her hand to look at what lay in her palm - the Starflower, as the evil Man had called it. The object itself was not evil, though - Anna was certain of that. As soon as she had stepped out of the Prancing Pony's stable, the light had disappeared, and the jewel lay dark in her hand.

It was of pure silver, wrought so finely and delicately it was hard to believe it was metal. The white gem in the middle was what had reflected the lamplight in the stable. Anna had no idea what kind of stone it was, although it was obviously very valuable. It hung on a thin silver chain. Anna could not imagine to whom such a wondrous thing could belong. An Elf Queen, perhaps, but what was it doing under the stable of the Prancing Pony? When it had sparkled in her hand, she had felt something almost completely unfamiliar to her; it was a sensation of depth and seeing, like looking into clear water, fathoms and fathoms down to an ocean floor.

A gust of wind blew her hair into her eyes, and she closed them, shaking her head briefly. Anna had felt such a feeling of clarity only once before in her life - when she had run into the Hobbit, whatever his name was, and known that he would save her life. It had shocked her then, so much that she could not say a word in reply when he had spoken to her. That knowing, that sense of sight, of seeing with the mind - it was magic of some sort, or witchery, and Anna feared it. She had no use for magic; it was a thing for Elves and Wizards, and she wanted nothing to do with it.

Yet as she looked once more on the beautiful gem in her hand, the thought stilled her mind. It felt right, somehow, as if the Starflower was hers alone now; furthermore, it felt as if she should use it for something, if she only knew what.

Anna's thoughts turned then to the young Hobbit who had not disproven her foreboding and had indeed saved her life that night. Idly, she wondered if anyone else she knew would have done the same. It was a strange sensation, but she almost felt as if he were her friend . . . Though perhaps only because they had met twice in one day and on neither occasion had he insulted her, or thrown something at her, as people usually did. Lominelen had called him Tom, but that was a pet-name; she still did not know how he was really called. Anna remembered the expression on his face as he had looked up at the Man who had nearly killed him. She had pitied him then, to her own surprise. Enough that she had wanted to help him. But he had helped her instead; he had attacked his one-time friend to save her life.

She wondered where he was now.

Anna sighed and rested her head on her knees. The sounds of the trees around her were reassuring, and her troubled thoughts trailed off into stillness.

Through the stillness in her own mind, she heard a shout float up from the town below the Hill. It was a man's voice with a note of command in it, though she could not make out the words.

Suddenly uneasy, she climbed slowly to her feet, brushing soil and grass off her clothes. Leaning around the trunk of the tree, she looked down on Bree.

The town was lit, and there were troops of Guardsmen patrolling the streets - only natural, after the assault on the town. Briefly, Anna wondered how many had been killed and what punishment would be allotted to Lominelen, the traitor, now that his guilt was known.

All of a sudden, an idea burst upon her mind like the sunrise of a day of execution. Her mouth fell open in utter shock. Then, with trembling hands, she hung the Starflower around her neck and began to creep as quickly as she could down the Hill, into the bright streets of Bree, to look for one Hobbit.

Had Anna been able to see Tolman at that moment, she might have wept. He, at least, had wept for a time, though the tears had died off long ago and silence remained now. He lay upon the cold earth in the gaol of Bree in a small stone cell with a heavy iron door and a single barred window high up on the wall. A single star was visible through the window; all else was blackness. But far worse than this dark cell was the dungeon in Tolman's head, which had no door nor window, and which no light could penetrate.

He lay upon the cold, wet ground, and the musty smell of earth was on him. His hair dripped with sweat and water, tangled locks falling over his face. His neck burned with a stinging pain; though it had stopped bleeding, the long cut now felt hot and puffy. His hands and feet were frozen, his throat dry with thirst. But he might as well have had no body for all that he felt of it.

Before his eyes Tolman saw not the liquid darkness of the cell, but an endless parade of memories, silent, but clear and sharp as the edge of a knife. He saw his mother, his father, and Lóminelen. He saw himself as well, the forests, and the Orcs.

One memory kept returning to his mind, floating up out of the strange jumble of color in his mind to present itself again and again.

. . . He and his father were in the Chetwood, his father teaching him the names of the plants they came across. They were wandering slowly along the bank of a small stream called the Thistledown Trickle. It had gotten its name because in autumn the thistledown drifting on the wind would often settle and float for a while on the surface of the slow-moving, shallow water, making the stream look like a large, fuzzy, white snake. It looked like this now, in his memory. His father had been talking about Mirabella, Tolman's mother, with the wistful, distant look on his face that was always there when he spoke of her, when he suddenly stopped where he was, standing beneath the boughs of a weeping willow. Tolman could hear his voice now, echoing up through years of memory.

"Look, Trotter! A Sunfeather plant!"

Tolman had looked where his father was pointing, near the roots of the willow tree. What he saw was not inspiring; it was a plant, but seemed to have no qualifications for being called a 'sunfeather'. It was a mottled grayish-green in color with large thorns and poisonous-looking red berries all rolled into a mass which resembled a hairball a giant cat might have coughed up. When he said as much, his father's eyes twinkled.

"Look again . . ." he had whispered and pulled on one twisted stalk. As if by magic, the plan's leaves unrolled and spread out, revealing their inner side to be a pure golden color. In the center of the plant, heretofore invisible, bloomed a white flower, its delicate petals spreading out like the feathers of a swan.

"It's leaves in a tea can warm the drinker, and its roots stop bleeding." Seeing his son's astonishment, Adelard Marchbank smiled.

"Not everything is what it seems . . ."

As Tolman lay there, staring into the dark, it seemed to him that he could hear his father's words, over and over. "Not everything is what it seems . . . not everything is what it seems . . ."

Suddenly, he blinked. He did hear voices, but not his father's. Someone was speaking outside the cell or several someones, more likely. Then the lock on the door began to grate; someone was opening it, whether to come in or to take him out he didn't know, though he would probably find out directly. Hunching his shoulder, he rolled away from the door and the center of the cell, ending up stretched flat against the wall. The door opened briefly, and light flooded in, blinding him. Something that appeared to be a sack was thrown in before the door slammed shut once more and all was darkness again. The afterimage of the light burned on Tolman's eyes, and for a moment he did not realize that the sack was not a sack, but a person. Starlight glinted on dark blonde hair, and suddenly Tolman knew who his companion must be.

"Anna?" he whispered.

"I would whisper your name back in an equally surprised manner," said the girl in an ironical tone, "Except I don't even know your name."

For a moment, Tolman could not think of anything to answer. Then:

"What are you doing here?" he burst out, "I told you to run away!"

"I did run away. But I came back. I still have your sword and I . . . I thought maybe you might need my help. You saved my life and, well, one doesn't leave one's friends in the frying pan, as the saying goes."

"So you came to rescue me?" Tolman asked skeptically.

"I suppose you might say that."

He laughed suddenly, surprising himself.

"Fine job you've done."

"Don't be silly," snapped Anna, "I didn't get myself thrown in here for nothing. I brought you your sword."

Tolman realized that he could see her face; a sliver of moon had appeared in the single window and was lighting up the cell. She was holding out Nyéra to him, wrapped in some sort of cloth. He took the sword from her slowly, unwrapping it to look at its familiar shape. It was undamaged and as dark as ever.

"How did you know?" Anna asked suddenly.

"Know what?" he said, glancing up at her.

"That the Guard was coming for you and not for Lomin. I thought they knew he had betrayed everyone and you only wanted me to run so that no one would see the Starflower, and Lomin couldn't try and blame the gate-opening on me again. But he blamed it on you, and they took you . . . the idea that he would use you to hide his own guilt only occurred to me when I was already far away, and so I came back to try and help you. But you knew beforehand."

Tolman put Nyéra back into its scabbard, which had been hanging empty at his side. They had let him keep it because an empty scabbard wasn't much good as a weapon. He looked back at Anna.

"I didn't know," he said softly, "I told you to run because I thought the Guard would seize you on even the slightest premise. But things have taken a darker turn. Among those who were killed tonight are the mayor and the other Captain of the Guard. Lómin is now the highest-ranking official in Bree; he has control of the town. And it is as you guessed: I am accused of opening the East Gate and letting in the Orcs. It was all carefully planned, and your discovery of him in the end only furthered Lomin's designs; now he can blame the affair on me and on you as well. I heard the Guard speaking so when I was brought here."

They sat for a moment in silence, each with their own thoughts. The moon shone fully through the window now, and Tolman could see clearly; Nyéra in his hands, Anna sitting with head bowed in front of him, the damp cell around them. A thought crossed his mind.

"How did you smuggle Nyéra in here?" he asked. "Surely they searched you."

"What?" Anna said. Then comprehension lit up her face. "Oh, the sword." She looked troubled. "Yes, they searched me, but they didn't find it. It was only under my shirt, but . . . it was almost as if they looked around it. It's a strange thing, that sword. I don't like it much, and it scares me . . ." Then suddenly, she grinned. "That isn't the only thing I smuggled in!" And reaching into her hair, she pulled out the Starflower, still lightless, but beautiful as before.

Tolman stared at it in awe. What such a treasure would be doing under the dirt of the Prancing Pony's stable, he couldn't begin to guess.

"What do you think it is?" he said.

Anna looked as blank as he.

"I don't know." She said simply, hanging it around her neck, "But that's not important now. We have to get out of here before they come to behead you or whatever the punishment for treachery is."

"Disembowelment." Tolman corrected her bleakly. Anna shuddered.

"Even worse. How is your wound? Can you stand?"

Tolman stretched his various muscles.

"Of course," he said, "It's only a scratch. But how are we supposed to get out of here? The door is guarded."

"The window . . ." Anna began.

" . . . is seven feet high." He finished for her, "And barred."

"I'm sure your sword can cut through the bars," Anna said, brow furrowing, "but the height . . ." she stared up at the window.

Tolman sighed, leaning back against the wall. He was tired, and hungry. Escape seemed hopeless and death certain. And he had somehow dragged Anna into the whole business with him. The window was more than twice his height up the wall. Anna was taller than he, but even if they managed to stand on each other's shoulders, leaning against the wall, they wouldn't reach that high . . .

Suddenly his thoughts froze and a huge grin spread across his face.

The wall.

Anna was looking at him oddly.

"What's the matter?" she asked, "Is there something particularly humorous about being disemboweled that I'm missing?"

"Call me Gandalf the Wise and you won't be far off." Tolman answered, still grinning.

"Although I doubt that, I'll leave off arguing for the sake of survival. For now. While we're on the topic, what do I call you?"

Tolman hesitated for a moment.

"Call me . . ." he said slowly, " . . . Trotter."

If Anna thought this was strange, she gave no sign.

"Well, Trotter," she said, "What is your brilliant idea? Or joke, as the case might be?"

In answer, he held out his hand.

"Help me up," he said, "Please."

Anna pulled him to his feet, looking concerned when he stumbled light-headedly.

"Is the wound deep?" she asked worriedly.

"No," he answered truthfully. "But it feels strange, as if the arrow were poisoned or something. Although if it had been poisoned I would probably be dead outright and not just a bit feverish. But help me, and we shall be out of here before long."

With Anna following him, he walked to the wall under the window, drew his sword, and began to cut.

The sword surprised even him. There was no sound, as he sliced at the borders between the stone blocks, no screech of metal against rock, and nothing to alert the guards. It was tiring work; the stone was hard, and Trotter had only the strength of a Hobbit and was weakened at that. His arms felt like lead, and sweat stung his eyes, but half an hour later a ladder was cut into the stone wall up to the height of his head. Panting, Trotter lowered the sword.

"I'll have to climb up to cut further," he said, "but I think I should rest a moment first."

Anna looked worried.

"You don't have enough strength," she said, "Let me try . . ."

"No." Trotter replied, "It's my sword. It won't work the same for anyone else." He felt certain of this for some reason.

"Then at least sit down and take off your shirt," she said.

"What?" Trotter was dumbfounded.

"So I can wash off the blood!"

"Oh. Right." Trotter shook his head. He really was tired. It was a relief to sit, but he began to shiver as soon as his shirt was off. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. A second later, he felt Anna's hands on his skin, distantly, and opened his eyes to look at her. She was chewing her lip and staring at the wound on his neck, and she did not look very happy. The cut was longer than he had thought, but it did not take long before the dried blood was wiped off his skin. Picking up the piece of cloth she had earlier wrapped Nyéra in, Anna tied it around his neck like a scarf, binding the wound.

"I can't do anything else," she said, shrugging apologetically.

"Thank you." Trotter said quietly. After a few more minutes of rest, he pulled his shirt back on and stood up once more.

"We have to hurry," Anna said, "It'll be dawn soon and they'll see . . ."

Trotter nodded and began to climb the wall. His arms ached, but he tried to ignore it as best as he could. For three quarters of an hour he climbed and cut, cut and climbed. At the end of those forty-five minutes, he had reached the window. The sky was now a dark blue instead of the black of night. Six more cuts and he gently pulled the bars from the window, tossing them down one by one to Anna, who put them noiselessly on the floor.

The window was narrow; a Man would never have fit through. But Anna and Trotter were not Men, and their diminutive size stood them in good stead this time. Trotter looked out at the town. It was not asleep; there were lights, and he was sure Guardsmen would be on the streets. He was known to be a traitor; if someone saw him, they would shoot without so much as a warning.

"Come on!" he whispered down to Anna. Then he sheathed his sword and turned back to the window. With some difficulty, he wriggled through the rough stone and tumbled out the other side. Air rushed by him, and he landed hard for the second time that night. For a moment, stars swam before his eyes and he blacked out.

When the world came back into focus, he found Anna beside him, looking at him with round eyes.

"All right?" she whispered. He nodded.

"The West Gate," he said, "Quickly." With Anna's help, he got to his feet, and they started off, hugging the walls and the shadows. It was hard going; three times they were almost seen, twice by Men and once by a lone Hobbit. The Hobbit was Bingo Took, an acquaintance of Trotter's; he had to bite his lip to keep from calling out in greeting. Luckily, it was the hour before dawn, and relatively quiet. They could hear anyone approaching before they were seen. Passing the familiar houses and yards, streets and squares, Trotter wondered if he would ever see them again. Yesterday he had certainly never considered that he would be fleeing from his own town within the next twenty-four hours, with Anna Applethorn of all people.

They passed a house with a large garden. There was a gray horse tethered in front, undisturbed by recent events, chewing on some hay. As they passed, flitting from shadow to shadow, the mare raised her head. For a moment Trotter was sure the animal would whinny or make some other noise and they would be lost; but they passed by, and the horse made no sound.

By the time they reached the West Gate, the sky had lightened to gray. This gate was not like the East one, heavily guarded and protected, but a simple door, with a window at the level of a Man's head and another at the level of a Hobbit's or Dwarf's. There was, however, a guard.

Suddenly, Anna stopped and pushed him into the shadow of a narrow alley between the two last rows of houses.

"Wait here." She whispered.

"Where are you going?" he protested, grabbing her arm.

"What hour is better than that of dawn for the art of stealing?" she said with an impish grin, "I'll be back soon." With these words, she shook him off and slipped back into the main street.

Trotter tried to slow his frantically beating heart. Whatever she was going to steal, it had better be either extremely useful or unimaginably important. Idly, he wondered how many of the stories he had heard about Anna were true. That she was a thief apparently was, though perhaps the incident that had started the rumor had been in a good cause, like now. But what about the one about the mayor's son and a very large salami...?

Before he could pursue this line of thought, the object of his ruminations returned. She was leading, to his delight, the horse they had seen some streets back.

"A simple matter of touch and go," Anna said, seeing his look, "But I think we've arrived at the 'go' part."

Wasting no time, they climbed onto the horse, whose name, according to Anna, was Nori. Trotter was in front, and Anna sat behind him; both drew the hoods of their cloaks over their faces. Trotter took the reins in his hands, and they rode into the dusty street towards the Gate.

The horizon was now streaked with pink and red, but as yet the cocks had not crowed, and Bree remained silent around them. They were almost at the Gate, and no one had hailed them.

"Maybe the guard went off to the East side," Anna said behind him, "Maybe there's no . . ."

"Halt!" called a voice, sounding rather annoyed, and the guard hurried out of his small hut at the side of the road, "Where do you think you're going?"

An idea occurred to Trotter.

"I have to pass the Gate," he said, trying to sound as if he were not lying, "I have a message from Lominelen, the Captain of the Guard, to take to the King in Fornost."

The guard, a middle-sized, stocky Man with graying brown hair and brown eyes, squinted up at him.

"I know nothing of this," he said brusquely, "I can't let you go; my orders are to let no one out. There's been treachery in the town, you know."

"Yes, I know," Trotter said, "In fact, that is part of my message to the King. I was told to show this at the Gate." And he pulled out of his pocket his father's brooch, the emblem of a white tree and seven stars.

The guard looked at the brooch. He seemed to be considering. Trotter bit his lip, praying for him to let them through.

"So you're a Guardsman," said the Man, "That proves nothing. I'll have to send my assistant to ask the Captain if . . ."

"Go!" hissed Anna in Trotter's ear.

He didn't have to be told twice. Kicking the horse in the sides and drawing Nyéra from its sheath over his shoulder, he hacked through the door of the West Gate and they had galloped through before the guard could do more than shout.

"We're out!" he yelled, and heard Anna echoing him as they raced away. Within seconds, they had reached the cover of the trees. Elation gripped Trotter and he laughed aloud, throwing back his hood and raising his sword above his head in one hand. The full dawn broke, and sunlight flooded the autumn forest. In a few seconds, the town would be out of sight . . .

Behind them, the horns of Bree began to blow.

Trotter's laughter stilled as the fair voices of Bree's bugles rose behind them. He had heard them sing many times, and loved the sound; but now when they were wound for him they heralded only danger. He reined in the horse and they stopped, still on the road in the autumn forest. A slight breeze rustled through the dry leaves. Then the sound of the horns died, and all was silent beneath the early morning sun.

"Will they come after us?" Anna asked behind his back.

"Yes," He answered without a shred of uncertainty, "They will come because they believe I betrayed them, and that they are right in hunting me. And Lomin will send them for what you now wear around your neck, if he truly wants it."

For a moment Anna was silent, and Trotter thought he knew what she wished to say. But she kept this thought to herself. Instead she said:

"Then we must ride. But which way?"

Trotter turned his head from side to side, looking at the forest around them. He felt the chill morning air upon his face, and in his mind he saw the far leagues of the lands around.

To the north, the countryside rolled away in low hills, sparsely wooded; small villages and farms dotted it, and the Road ran alongside, to Fornost, where the King dwelt. West lay the Shire and beyond it Lindon and the Gulf of Lhûn, home of the Elves. To the East was darkness; southwards the Road led between the downs. Tyrn Gorthad was there, the Barrow-downs, where ancient battles had been fought and dark spirits were said to rest uneasily.

East they could not go, that was clear. Trotter's heart turned to the Shire in the West, where his own people dwelt. But the Shire-folk would not help them now; they were outlaws, and those who hunted them sheltered under the arm of Arnor, with right on their side. In the North was the King, and dearly indeed did Trotter wish to go there, for King Arvedui was a wise man and a just, and it was said of him that he recognized truth and saw through all lies. But Fornost was a week distant, and the two of them on one horse would easily be overtaken by riders from Bree before they could come close to the city. And he himself could not ride hard; his strength was almost spent, and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. They needed a place to hide and rest, a place close by where they would not be found and their presence not even guessed at.

A cold dread crept over Trotter's heart as their only possible path became clear to him. A place of concealment where their pursuers would never think to search for them . . .

"We go to Tyrn Gorthad," he said, and urging on the horse, they rode south and west into the shadowed downs.


	3. The Ghosts of Men

Lomin was alone, except for the bodies. He did not know how many had died the night before; no one had counted the corpses yet, and besides, that was not what interested him now. He had come here, to the deserted graveyard on the western slopes of Bree-hill, hidden in the trees and out of sight of the town, to search for someone.

He walked slowly along the porch of the undertaker's house. It was a cold building no matter the weather, facing the cemetery on the slopes above it with stolid acceptance. Crimson-clad trees ringed the area, separating it from the living town of Bree, and the grass and weeds growing between the graves were a yellow-golden colour. Graveyards are generally thought of as unpleasant places, but this one was particularly grim at the moment.

Lomin surveyed the bodies lying in disorderly heaps on the ground in front of the undertaker's building. They had been carted here from the battlefield hastily – it had been a long time since Bree had suffered so many dead at once, and the folk seemed unsure of what to do with the corpses of the fallen. There were Orcs here – they would be burned – and Bree-folk as well, awaiting a proper burial once enough graves could be dug. But for now every hand was busy rebuilding what had been destroyed, healing the injured, and strengthening the town's defences.

His gaze caught on a small broken shape half-concealed by the body of a Man. Stepping closer, he hunkered down and pushed away the larger body. Yes, this was he – a white-haired Hobbit, with the remains of an arrow embedded in his side. Lomin made no move to touch the body, merely looking at it silently.

Steps rang out on the stone path leading up from Bree. Voices floated on the air toward the kneeling Man, and he heard his name being called.

"Captain Lominelen!" a deep man's voice said, "Important message, sir!"

Lomin slid smoothly back to his feet and watched as two men approached him, half-running in their excitement. One was a short, barrel-chested Guardsman, though Lomin could not recall his name. The other was a stranger, his garments dusty and stained, his face lined with fatigue; he looked as though he had travelled long distances to come here.

"Yes?" Lomin asked, stepping away from the corpses, "What is it?"

The Guardsman bowed low and gestured to his companion. "This is Corrin Caldorn, sir. He's come from Fornost with a message from the King. He says it's important – insisted on seeing you immediately. I know you didn't want to be disturbed, but I thought you would rather know."

Lomin glanced over the newcomer with a considering eye. The messenger was tall and wispy, almost gangly, and his brown hair stuck out from his head in disordered clumps. He wore a ragged moustache and a dark tan, and there was a broadsword buckled to his belt. All of his clothes seemed to fit rather badly, and he had the general air of a wandering type about him. He bowed slightly but said nothing.

"Very well," Lomin nodded to the Guardsman, "Please, leave us. When I have spoken to Mr. Caldorn we will return to the East Tower – that is, if you will grace us with your company and partake in some refreshments among my men?" He asked, directing the question at Caldorn.

The messenger shook his head. "I dare not tarry," he said, "Once I deliver my message and hear your answer, I will be on the road again. The King's orders were quite specific."

"As you wish," Lomin replied, waving his hand at the Guardsman. The burly soldier bowed once more and left the two men to themselves, his footsteps fading away into silence. For a moment Lomin was in doubt as to what he should say – why had the King sent a messenger, to arrive now of all times? What did he know? It was said of Arvedui, the King of Arnor, that he could see things beyond the reach of human eyes. Had he seen the events of the past few days?

Lomin was saved from having to speak when Caldorn himself opened the conversation. The messenger's voice was raspy and hoarse, and spoke quickly, as if he truly were in a hurry to be on his way as soon as possible.

"Allow me to express my condolences," he said, "I was not expecting to find a battle when I arrived. It seems you have suffered great losses, and I am afraid I cannot bring much good news."

"Great losses, yes," Lomin agreed, "But we will manage. This is Bree, and Bree-folk do not give up, no matter the circumstances! The Witch-King's plan failed, and he will never take Bree as long as people remain to defend it. This town defends the east of Arnor, and it will continue to do so – you can assure King Arvedui of that."

"No doubt he will be glad to hear it," Caldorn nodded complacently, "But the King asks more of Bree now. A few weeks ago great stirrings were noticed in the east, and our people who live in those lands fled west to Fornost, bearing tales of the ever-growing forces of the Witch-King. He has raised armies – where his followers come from is uncertain, though we suspect he has allied himself with the Dunlendings and the Orcs of the mountains. In any case, Bree is not the only place under attack. The Witch-King's forces have marched entirely to the Weather Hills. There we have stopped and held them, but our number is less than theirs. I have been sent to request troops from Bree to strengthen the defence. We need more men if the kingdom is to be protected!"

Lomin's brow creased in thought, and his gaze wandered over the bodies silent in the sun. He sighed once, deeply, and his expression was bitter when he answered.

"You see that we have little to give," he said, "Many of my best men were killed last night, and what you see here is not the total number of dead. We do not even know how many we have lost! I cannot send a large force to the Weather Hills, or Bree will be left defenceless."

"If the Weather Hills are not defended," Caldorn replied, growing agitated, "Bree will be lost anyway. The kingdom must have all its strength! And it is the King himself who orders you. You must obey him, or you act as a traitor!"

Lomin's lips twisted unwillingly and he jerked away from the tall man, taking a quick step backward.

"Captain!" Caldorn said angrily, his mild eyes flashing and wispy hair flying about his head, "You must do as the King orders!" He took a hasty step after Lomin.

It was this that Lomin had been waiting for. His hand flashed out quicker than the human eye could follow, striking three times, the throat, the chin, the nose. There was a crack, and blood poured from Caldorn's nostrils; his eyes were frozen wide open in shock. For a moment he remained standing. Then he toppled silently, his limp body thudding to the ground among the still corpses. His eyes remained open.

Lomin drew his dagger from its sheath at his belt, and bent over the dead messenger. With a few quick strokes, he cut into the man's face, until it was an unrecognisable mask of blood. Satisfied with his work, he wiped the blade on Caldorn's cloak and returned it to its sheath. He looked around carefully and examined his hands to make sure no trace of the deed remained. Then he turned his back on the dead and started down the path to Bree.

Let the corpse lie there among the others. No one would ever find it – what was one body more or less?

A few minutes later, he rounded the shoulder of the hill and Bree came into sight, spread out innocently before him. Little was visible of the attack – the few burned houses did not stand out among the others, and not much other damage had been done, except to human lives. Bree was intact, and it was in his hands now. Would it be enough? He had made an agreement, and fulfilled it – but not all of it. One thing remained for him to do. And if he failed … if he failed, he would simply have to act sooner than he had planned. They thought they had him trapped, they thought he was their servant – but Lominelen was no one's servant, as would become clear sooner or later.

He barely heard the greetings called to him by citizens and Guardsmen as he strode the streets eastward. When he reached the East Tower, he returned the guards' salutes silently and stepped into the cool stone building. His quarters, a Captain's quarters, were further upwards, and his feet climbed the familiar stairs without guidance as he pondered the best course of action.

With a gush of relief he would never have admitted to, Lomin stepped into his room and closed the door behind him. The chamber was quiet and mostly bare; only an empty table and a small collection of swords hung on the wall relieved the starkness of the stone. There was no window here, though one did adorn the wall of the bedroom, which opened from the only other door in the chamber.

Lomin leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He realized in surprise that he was tired. He felt strained – he had made a mistake, and things were getting complicated.

"Fatigue is a weakness."

The voice, blade-sharp, dry and emotionless, sliced through the silence. Lomin jerked and snapped his eyes open. He found himself facing a tall figure, clothed in shadow, staring at him with a faceless gaze.

Nazgul.

His shoulders thudded against the door behind him and he realized that he had backed away involuntarily. Angrily, he straightened, disgusted that he had allowed the Black Rider to influence him so. Where had it come from? The door to the other room was opened – it must have been in the bedchamber. The air suddenly seemed colder, and Lomin repressed an urge to shudder.

Nazgul – he knew the name, though he knew nothing else about them except that they were the Witch-King's most terrible servants. How many there were, where they had come from, what they were all remained a mystery … but they radiated fear like a sun does heat, and even he felt icy fingers clutching his spine as he faced the one before him now. He pushed away the feeling, and tried to speak calmly.

"What do you want?" he asked, half-angrily and half-uncertainly, "How dare you come inside the walls! If someone sees you …"

"Then they will die. Do you have it?" the Black Rider hissed.

Lomin swallowed. "No," he said, "I don't." He glared defiantly at the Nazgul, but the creature said nothing, and in the end he was forced to continue.

"The girl took it with her. They have escaped from the town. I sent riders out after them – they will be caught, and you will have your trinket. But we had an agreement. I have fulfilled half of it. Bree will obey the Witch-King's will, and the King of Arnor will have no help from his own kingdom. We have cut his legs out from under him, and he will never even suspect it. The other half of my task will be completed directly. But I was promised something in return."

"Do you demand payment?" the Nazgul said, and there was dry laughter in the words, "What do you desire, human? Wealth? Rank? Women?"

"I was promised a Ring of Power."

The Nazgul threw back its head and for one heart-stopping moment, Lomin thought it would shriek and the guards would come running, to find their Captain consorting with the worst of the Enemy's minions. But it merely stood there. The room seemed to grow dark and vague; the walls receded into shadow. Lomin found he could barely see. The air was thick and grey, and only the Black Rider seemed clear, so terribly clear. He found his hearing sharpened – his own breath rushed in his ears, and a strange roaring sound filled the room, though he could not hear any breathing from the Rider. It stepped close to him, a black pillar in the grey world.

"Do you know what it is you ask for?" the Nazgul said, and Lomin gasped in surprise. The voice was no longer thin and inhuman – it was the voice of a man, cold and cruel, hard as bones, but human nonetheless. The Rider bent towards him, and he glimpsed into the depths of its cavernous hood. He looked away quickly, trying to erase the image of white flesh and hollow eyes. It wasn't real … it was a trick the creature was playing on him.

"Rings of Power are perilous for mortal men," the Nazgul said, lifting its gauntleted hand. Lomin saw in horror that on one metal-coated finger a ring glowed. It was a twisted band of silver and iron, shaped like two claw-like hands clutching at each other. At the centre, in the grasp of the hands, rested a black stone with an odd metallic sheen – in the shape of a tormented human figure. He knew instantly that this was the source of the Rider's power. This was a Ring of Power.

He wanted to howl.

"Everything has its price," the Rider whispered in its iron voice, "Perhaps you do not want a Ring after all… great gifts can be heavy burdens. But it is too late now. You desired power. You have been given it, and you belong to the Dark Lord."

Long leagues to the North and unaware as yet of the shadow creeping into its very heart lay the city of Fornost. The city rose from the foot of the North Downs; in fact, it was partly inside the Downs themselves. The castle of the King, called the Thousand Windows, was cloven out of the living rock of the southern cliff of the downs, and many of its halls and chambers led into the stone. At the west side of the city, upon an outcropping of stone rising out of the cliffside like a giant boulder, stood a tall tower of white wrought with silver, crowned with a roof of gold that flashed in the sun. It was called Minas Hen, the Tower of Seeing, for it was here that the palantír of Fornost, once of Amon Sûl, was kept. Here the King, looking into the Seeing Stone, bent his mind to the affairs of his realm, of the world, and of the dark powers. Much he saw and used it well, and yet there was much that was veiled to him and unforeseen. He had spent many long hours there, striving to uncover the devices of the Witch-King – and yet the Enemy evaded him.

Here he stood now, Arvedui of the Dúnedain, before the eastward-looking window with the palantír in his hands. The stone was not large, though it was surprisingly heavy; it was dark, but a fire burned in its depths. The Man bent his head over it, intent on the swirling shapes within, his face frozen with concentration. He stayed so for long moments without moving, before finally sighing and placing the palantír upon a table under the window. With tired eyes, he turned his back to the East.

"It is no use, Gandalf," he said, "It is clouded."

The room was spacious, though unfurnished, encompassing the full width and breadth of the tower. Its walls were white and hung with tapestries in blue and green depicting maps of Arnor and Lhûn, Gondor and Mirkwood, the Misty Mountains and Rivendell. The ceiling rose high to the golden roof, and light streamed in the eight windows that were spaced evenly around the tower, fanning out into all directions.

In the sunlight of the southern window stood an old man clad all in grey, leaning upon a staff. He turned to look at Arvedui, and though his face was deeply marked by age and a long grey beard trailed from his chin, his eyes were strong and keen, full of wisdom and flecked by humour.

"I cannot see even to Bree," Arvedui said to his companion, "A shadow has fallen between. Nor can I reach Gondor; the Stone will not turn there. I am afraid we are alone, Gandalf. I cannot call to the South Kingdom for help."

"I do not like this strange darkness," replied the Grey Pilgrim, for so he was called by those who knew something of his nature and task, "My heart warns of a new evil. Something has strengthened the Witch-king's power, if he can turn a palantír from the control of its rightful master." He sighed and turned back to look out the window. "He has won some invisible battle or gained an ally, and we have lost more ground. Things cannot continue like this – you must take action of some sort."

Arvedui walked slowly beside the wall, trailing his hand along the map of Arnor, his footfalls soft on the white floor, until he stood by Gandalf.

"We cannot hold out alone," he said, softly but urgently, "The Witch-king's forces stand at the Weather Hills, and we are barely keeping them there. You are a Wizard, Gandalf. Can you not help me?" Arvedui's jaw was clenched, and it was obvious that he asked this against his will and it took much effort for him to do so. But his companion only shook his head.

"I am doing what is within my power," he said, "I may not do more, as you well know." Then he seemed to brighten, as if at some merry thought. "All is not lost," he said, "Send messengers to Gondor, Arvedui, messengers on foot or by horse. You may yet have the help you need, and on time too."

The King seemed to consider this idea, though his expression did not change. He had few options left and those that remained were doubtful and perilous. His kingdom was in a situation worse than any it had faced in its long history. And though Arnor had survived many dangers in the past, a shadow of despair was on him, for he felt strangely that no matter what he could do his kingdom would be lost; and he remembered the words of the seer with apprehension.

A choice will come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become king of a great realm. If not, then much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again.

Malbeth had spoken thus to his father when he was born. He had been named Arvedui, meaning the last in Arthedain, because he would be the last king … unless he took the right choice. But what was right? All choices seemed equally hopeless at the moment – how was he supposed to choose the least hopeful one? And what if the seer was wrong, and choosing the darkest path would lead to the worst defeat?

Discarding these thoughts angrily, he answered Gandalf's suggestion:

"As usual, your words hold wisdom," he said resolutely, "I will send riders through Bree and on to Rivendell on their path to Gondor. Perhaps Elrond Half-elven can lend us aid as well."

Gandalf shook his head slightly without noticing. He seemed to be reconsidering his own advice, and Arvedui wondered, not for the first time, what thoughts were passing through the Wizard's mind.

"I do not recommend the road to Rivendell," Gandalf said slowly, "Something about the strange unwillingness of the palantír to show you this path disturbs me. I fear if you send a message by that route it will never arrive."

"We have no other option," Arvedui replied, and his voice was decided, "The Northern route is barred by the Witch-king. We have no ships to send across the sea. There is only one other way - through the land of the Halflings and across the great plains of Minhiriath and Enedwaith. It will take even riders at least two months to reach Gondor, and then we must wait for Eärnil to send help. The might of Gondor will be useless if all is already wasteland when they arrive. My messengers are good men, Gandalf; they will find the way, and swiftly."

The Wizard continued to gaze out the window at the quiet lands spreading out before Fornost, reaching southward to the fuzzy line of the horizon.

"Winter is coming," he said, "The Witch-king's strength waxes. Something must be done. " Then he turned to the King, "Send out your riders, and let us pray they may bring help in time."

For several hours after leaving the Road, Trotter and Anna had gotten on at a good pace. The sun shone warmer than was usual for early October, and for a while Trotter felt his strength and spirits reviving. They rode over a bare country of low hills, treeless and pathless, and grass, brittle though still green, crunched beneath their horse's hooves. The sky was blue and clear, unmarred by clouds, and a light breeze ruffled their hair and brought with it the smells of autumn. Trotter thought much upon the last day, but spoke nothing of what was in his mind. Anna too was sunk into a deep silence, and so their journey was a wordless one.

By late afternoon, with shadows already growing long about them, they had left behind the flatter land to the north and had reached the foot of the Downs. The wind had begun to blow with more strength, but despite its chill Trotter caught himself nodding off more than once. On one occasion he nearly fell off the horse's back, and this finally brought Anna out of her silence.

"That's it, we are stopping now," she said, and he could hear the tiredness in her voice mirroring his own, "Even if you think you can go on, I freely admit that I can't. At the first possible site, I'm getting off this horse and sleeping where I fall. You'll probably be asleep before you hit the ground, judging by the looks of you."

Trotter reined in Nori and turned to look at Anna. Her hair was in a disarray, and she had dark circles under her eyes, but they widened when she saw his face. Quickly she laid her palm against his forehead.

"And you're burning like a Dwarven forge," she said, "There was something on that arrow, and I only hope it isn't too nasty. But that settles it. We're stopping right here. You said yourself they wouldn't follow us here, so it's safe enough . . ."

"No," Trotter interrupted, shaking his head. He immediately regretted it, as a wave of dizziness washed over him. "We have to get inside the Downs first."

Both he and Anna looked up at the hills looming before them. Two hills stood there, one on the left and one on the right. They were grey and bare, and the waning sunlight did not seem to touch them. At the base of each stood a broken stone, weathered and cracked. The stones leaned inward towards each other, as if they had once been part of an ancient gate, the entrance to Tyrn Gorthad. They looked grim and bleak, their long black shadows stretching out upon the ground like dark fingers. Trotter felt his heart sinking along with the late sun. But he said nothing, only urged Nori on and through the forbidding hills. The horse snorted nervously and flicked her ears, and Trotter could feel Anna's hands tightening on his waist. So they passed into Tyrn Gorthad, of which legends spoke only in hushed whispers.

There was no immediate change as they entered the Downs; the sun still shone, and the sky remained blue. And yet Trotter had a strange feeling, as if they were being watched. Oddly, it did not feel like a hostile gaze, only a silent waiting. Trotter shivered. He was probably having fever-dreams. Next he'd be seeing things that weren't there …

They passed through the first two hills, and now the downs rose all about them, cold and grey. Trotter wavered on the edge of sleep; his skin burned and his mouth was dry, but he was not yet willing to stop. They rode on for some time, bearing westwards, over ridges and small hills, keeping to the valleys between the downs and avoiding the heights from which they might be seen from afar. The shadows grew longer and deeper, and began to merge together as the sky faded to twilight. It grew chill, though the wind died down.

Finally, Trotter stopped. They stood on the northeast side of a large down. There was a small depression on the side of the hill, which sloped gently down. It was a mere dent on the broad back of the ridge, but some flat rocks stood there and even a few late flowers bloomed around them, spare and thin in the cold soil. It seemed like a good omen. Here they dismounted and, hungry but too tired to care, huddled close together for warmth and fell almost instantly into a dreamless sleep.

Trotter awoke suddenly, unsure what had disturbed his sleep. He opened his eyes to find a black shape leaning over him. With a cry, he sprang to his feet, drawing Nyéra and facing the stranger, who had retreated a step to avoid the sword. Anna, awoken by his cry, gasped in surprise and stumbled to her feet to stand at his side.

"Make no sound!" whispered the stranger in an urgent tone, "I have been watching you for some time. You are being followed; the pursuit is upon your tail. You must leave this place now."

The sky was clear, and by moon and starlight Trotter could see the person he was now facing.

The stranger was taller than either he or Anna, but still smaller than a Man. His hair was long, reaching to his shoulders, and seemed to be brown from what Trotter could tell. He was slight in build, with an Elvish air about him; in fact Trotter would have taken him for an Elf, but for his height. He carried a longbow nearly as large as himself upon his back, and a quiver of arrows at his hip. Starlight glimmered in his eyes, and he seemed young, though Trotter could not have guessed at his age.

"Who are you?" he asked, understandably suspicious, "And what interest do you have in us?"

The stranger seemed merely amused by his distrust.

"I am called Beleg," he said with a mocking bow, "Or Beleg the Elfit, if you must know, and I have no interest in you whatsoever, save that I dislike seeing a horseless, gibbering Hobbit with an unarmed girl being pursued by a party of mounted soldiers. I thought I might even out the odds a little."

Trotter glanced around him; true enough, Nori had disappeared. Had the horse merely wandered away, or had someone removed it? This Beleg could easily have led the animal away, destroying their chances for a quick escape. In any case, they now had only their own feet to carry them.

"And how do you plan to do that?" Anna asked skeptically, "Even out the odds, I mean?"

Beleg's eyes turned to Anna.

"Well, well, what's this?" he said, "A Hobbit, a Man, or a Dwarf? Hardly a lady, by the looks of you. What are you running from? Eloping, perhaps? Did your father forbid you to marry this fine specimen of a Hobbit? Or was it the other way around, and you were the unworthy party?"

Trotter could feel the anger coming off Anna in hot waves, but he paid no attention. He was looking intently at a medium-sized down whose one side broke off into a steep cliff leaning over a smaller hill next to it. It was the space between the cliff and the hill that interested him. There was a dark crack there, and he was sure he had seen movement at its mouth.

Trotter's mind raced. If their purpose had been guessed, they could easily have been overtaken by now; they had slept quite a while, and judging by the position of the stars, it was three hours or so from dawn. They no longer had a horse, and though his head felt clearer and he was more rested than at any time since that fateful battle in Bree - only the night before? It seemed much longer ago - he stood no chance against a party of pursuers. There was no one here to help them, even had they not been fugitives; no one except Beleg the Elfit. Making his decision quickly, he turned his attention back to his companions.

"Elfit?" Anna was saying, her voice loaded with all the contempt she could muster, which turned out to be a surprising amount, "What, not good enough to be an Elf? Did they send you away wandering, you poor rejected…"

"If you can truly help us," Trotter said, interrupting hastily, "Do so now, before we are found."

Both Anna and Beleg stared at him for a second. Beleg recovered first, turning business-like as if never a mocking word had come from his mouth.

"Very well," he said, "There is one place where Men will not follow you, and if they did, it could be held long by few against many. I can take you there, and lend you the services of my bow."

Trotter had no idea what Beleg was referring to, but he decided to act as if he did, and nodded shortly.

"Then we must run!" cried the Elfit, "They are upon us!"

Even as he spoke, the thunder of hooves broke out, echoing slightly between the hills. Glancing towards the crack between the two downs off to the east, Trotter saw five men on horses emerge in single file, galloping with torches in their hands. Then he was running in the footsteps of Beleg down the side of the hill, pulling Anna with him. Their footsteps pounding on the earth echoed the sound of hooves behind.

In the dark Trotter could not see their route. He followed blindly behind the grey flitting form of Beleg, Anna at his side. The ground, which had at first sloped beneath them, now began to rise again. They were climbing onto another down. Trotter repressed his doubts; there was nothing to do but trust the strange being who called himself an Elfit. The slope grew steeper, and his feet began to slip. Anna fell once, but he pulled her to her feet. He could hear her panting breaths next to him.

Suddenly the ground evened out beneath them. They had reached the crown of the hill. Trotter skidded to a halt. In the dim starlight, he could see a large mound rising in front of him. There was a dark, crooked doorway in it, and he could not see inside. Beleg stood by the doorway, waiting for them.

"A barrow?" Anna panted, "That's your wonderful place of safety? Are you mad? Evil spirits, Barrow-wights live inside - creatures of the Witch-king!"

Beleg only looked at her calmly.

"What fear hold the ghosts of Men for such as us?" he said, and turning from them, vanished into the dark doorway.

"We can't trust him!" Anna said to Trotter, her eyes wide, "He could be in league with them, leading us into a trap . . . Who knows what or who he is? Why would he just appear and help us? He wouldn't fear the Barrow-wights if he was on their side!"

Trotter's stomach churned. She could be right of course, but … Trotter glanced behind him. The riders were halfway up the hillside. In a few seconds they would be captured if they did not move now. One of the Men shouted up to them from the back of his horse.

"Halt!" he called, "Stop, in the name of Bree and the King!"

"Anna," Trotter said urgently, "If you don't trust him, at least trust me. There is no other choice."

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded, grim lines marring her smooth face. Together, they stepped into the dark.

There was true dark within the barrow, a pitch black that the eye could not penetrate. Trotter stumbled on the rough floor as he stepped forward. His footfalls were muffled; the ground was of stone, but thick with dust and dirt. He had a feeling of space around him, as if he were in a large room. The air was stale despite the open doorway. He walked blindly into the darkness, hands stretched out before him.

"Anna?" he called doubtfully, "Beleg?"

"I am right in front of you," Beleg's voice answered from next to Trotter. "If you turn around, you will see the doorway. There is a little light."

Trotter turned, and sure enough, there was the door they had come through, a slightly lighter patch dotted by a few stars.

"I suggest you draw your sword," Beleg said beside him, "It might come in handy, as weapons tend to in times of combat."

"Where's Anna?" Trotter asked, pulling Nyéra from behind his shoulder. Beleg had his longbow in his hands and an arrow knocked; Trotter could see the faint gleam of starlight on the arrowhead, if nothing else.

"I'm here by the door," Anna said. Her voice came from the right-hand side of the doorway. Trotter squinted into the dark and thought he could make out an Anna-shaped shadow roughly where her voice had come from.

Before he could say anything else, the clatter of horses rounded the top of the hill and man-shapes holding flames appeared in the square patch that was the doorway. Their pursuers had arrived; Trotter could now see them clearly by the light of the torches they carried. Five Men, none of which were familiar to him, but all moving like soldiers. He guessed they were Guardsmen.

They had dismounted and drawn their swords. Quickly and quietly they placed their torches into the ground around the entrance so as to cast as much light as possible through the doorway. Trotter could see the floor around the door now, and Nyéra in his hand, though the walls and Anna remained shrouded in darkness.

The Bree-Men took up positions around the doorway, two on each side, while the fifth, who seemed to be the leader, stepped forward. He had resheathed his sword and now held out both empty hands in token of parley.

"I wish to speak with you," he said. Trotter could see his face by the torch-light. He was young, but his face was fair and stern, and he did not waver as he began to talk. He seemed strangely familiar. Trotter was sure he had never seen him before, and yet something tugged at his memory. He wished he could see the young man's face more clearly; the flickering shadows playing on his skin shrouded his features.

"I am Falathor of the Guard of Bree," he said, "And I want to speak to the Hobbit called Tolman Marchbank."

Trotter hesitated for a minute, watching the solemn young man with his pale face shadowed by the firelight. Then he lowered Nyéra and stepped forward so the Man could see him by the torches' illumination. He felt Beleg moving silently behind him, keeping in the shadows and keeping his arrow knocked and aimed at Falathor, but gave no sign that he was aware of it.

"I was called that, once," he said to the Guardsman, "But now my name is Trotter, and I need no other."

"As you wish … Trotter," Falathor said, "I must inform you that you are accused by the Captain of Bree of treachery, attempted murder, and robbery. I have been sent with orders to kill you and to take the girl called Anna Applethorn back to Bree to face charges. However," he continued, "I dislike the spilling of blood, especially when it is unnecessary. If you will give yourself up without a fight I will not kill you, but take you as well to Bree and speak on your behalf. In this matter I give you my word of honour."

Trotter could not help it; he laughed. The sound of his voice fell heavily in the dead air around them, like iron bells clanging a bitter midnight hour. Falathor's face darkened. Apparently he was not used to being laughed at. Although Trotter still did not recognize him, he had the feeling Falathor was a rather dangerous and extraordinary person in his own way … and he probably didn't consort with Hobbits too much.

"Do you then doubt my word?" Falathor asked softly.

"Oh, I don't doubt you," Trotter replied, "It's the one whose orders you are following I am suspicious of, and justly so, if I don't say so myself! I am no traitor: the charges are false. The Man who opened the East Gate remains at liberty, and I'm afraid that is bad news for Bree."

Falathor frowned. Trotter could see that this answer did not please him, unsurprisingly, but the Man did not reply rashly. He seemed to weigh his words carefully before he spoke.

"You seem awfully certain of yourself. What are you implying, Hobbit? Lominelen the Captain of the Guard and of Bree has testified that you are guilty of treachery. His rank and regard are not undeserved – are you suggesting that he has made a mistake, or that he is lying? And who then is the traitor if, as you say, you are not he?"

It seemed to be getting lighter in the barrow, or perhaps his eyes had adjusted to the dark, for he could now see Anna pressed against the wall next to the door. She was staring at him and Beleg with narrowed eyes, her head cocked slightly to the side.

"Most likely he is both mistaken and lying," said Trotter bitterly, "But the main emphasis would be on lying. If you want to know the truth, I will tell you – but I'm warning you, it will not be to your liking! "

"Tell me then. I will hear you out."

Trotter doubted that, but he answered anyway. "Lomin is the traitor," he said, "He opened the Gate, and wishes me dead because Anna and I are the only witnesses." He did not have a chance to continue. Falathor's reaction was even more violent than he would have expected; the Man shouted a denial and drew his sword. He seemed to be on the brink of rushing into the barrow, though there was no way he could see inside or guess what might be awaiting him there.

"You lie!" Falathor cried, "And for those words I will kill you, and still the tongue that spoke these foul accusations! Lomin is no traitor!"

For an instant, a voice whispered in Trotter's mind – almost he thought he knew why this Man seemed so familiar to him. But he had no time to contemplate the idea. Falathor's blade gleamed with red fire, and he leaped forward into the doorway, sword raised high. Trotter braced himself to dodge, his weight on his toes.

Then all was frozen by Anna's shriek.

"The Wight!" she cried, pointing beyond Trotter, "The Barrow-wight!"

Trotter suddenly became aware that the barrow was indeed lighter and he could see quite clearly. A pale green light seemed to be coming out of the walls and floor and even himself, mixing with the darkness like a witch's brew. Falathor stood frozen in the doorway, attack forgotten, staring at something behind Trotter. With an unpleasant sense of foreboding, Trotter slowly turned to look behind him.

The barrow was large, and circular in form. There was a smaller circle in the middle separated by a surrounding ring of black pillars rising up to the roof. Within this smaller circle lay piles of gold and silver, goblets and jewels and coins, swords and shields and much fine armor, all glimmering with cold beauty in the strange light. And in the middle of the cursed treasure was a bier of stone, black and engraved with many strange symbols. Upon this bier the body of the fallen warrior should have rested; but, to his horror, Trotter saw that the warrior was not resting at all, was in fact standing upon the bier staring down at them all.

It was a terrible creature. Tall and thin as a skeleton, but clothed still in grey skin, black rags, and faded bits of armour, it glared down at them with hollow eyes devoid of consciousness. A silver helm teetered on its skeletal head. Jewelled rings encrusted its withered hands and hung upon its sunken breast, and it held a sword that burned with green fire. But the sword was not its most terrible weapon, for it now began to chant in a low, moaning voice that seemed to come both out of the itself and out of the stone walls around.

It was a heartless song, cold and unhappy, with a creaking tone that chilled Trotter's bones. It rose and fell like the howling wind on a dead winter's night, and to his horror Trotter realized he could make out words, terrible cruel words that sang of a miserable existence and desired only misery for others as well. Then it became clear to him that the song was not merely a song, but a spell of coldness and waking death:

"Cold is day and cold is night

Dark as death and never light

Their bodies lie on beds of gold

Maiden fair or warrior bold

Let them lie in deathless sleep

While starlight dies and dark grows deep

Till the dark lord lifts his hand

O'er dead sea and withered land."

A chill crept over Trotter, as if he lay in icy black water. All the warmth seemed to seep out of him; he could not move, and his mind felt thick and sluggish. Darkness gathered on the edge of his sight. It seemed very difficult to remain awake, and the depths of sleep called to him with low voices promising rest, oblivion, slumber beyond knowledge. He was being pulled into the dark water, and the light was fading, fading . . . In desperation, he tried to call out, to reach the dwindling light, and a voice shone through the darkness like a ray of sunlight:

"A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!"

Suddenly, the spell broke like a snapped cord, and he started as if waking from a deep sleep. It was Beleg who had spoken, in the tongue of the Elves, the name of the queen of the Stars, which is stronger than any black magic.

With a shriek, the barrow-wight leaped from its ancient bier, stalking with long legs through the piles of gold and silver heaped around its bed. Just as quickly, Beleg loosed his arrow, and it flew straight and true to strike the barrow-wight in the heart.

But the dark spirits beneath the ground do not truly live, and have no flesh to strike. So though the wight screamed and clawed at the arrow in its breast, it was not subdued. Pale eyes glowing, it lunged forward, sword whistling through the dead air. Trotter threw himself to the ground with a cry to avoid the stroke, sure that one touch of that cold jade blade would still his heart forever.

The wight raised its sword once more, but its downward stroke was stopped with a ringing clang by the blade of Falathor. The barrow-wight fell back and faced the Man who had leaped into its barrow and attacked it so fearlessly. Falathor stood tall, and his blade burned with red fire in opposition to the cold green steel in the hand of the dark spirit.

"For the King!" he cried, "Forward, Guardsmen!"

With these words, and followed by his four men crying the battle-calls of Bree and Arnor, he strode forward to finish the creature of the barrow.

But the barrow-wight had one more trick to play; its deadliest one and most cruel. As the five Men closed in on it, it raised its gaunt hand, and Trotter almost thought he could see a smile flicker over the haggard face. With a shout, he bounded to his feet and ran toward the skeletal creature.

"No!" he cried, "Falathor! Stop!"

He hurled himself in front of Falathor and thrust Nyéra out before him, crying out as he did so with words he could never remember afterwards.

A pale light flashed from the upraised hand of the wight like the rising of a sickly sun. It reached out into all directions, intangible tentacles, but just as deadly for being untouchable. The rays of poison turned from the dark blade of Nyéra, but the Men standing around him had no such protection. Trotter closed his eyes in horror, for despite the now painful brightness of the light, he could see too much of what the spell of the barrow-wight was capable of for his comfort. A strangled shout from one of the Men came to his ears, and he trembled in pity and disgust.

"Dameor!" cried Falathor in horror, calling to his stricken comrade. Trotter grabbed at the young Man's arm to hold him back, for Falathor had tried to rush forward to the aid of his companion.

Beleg suddenly appeared at Trotter's side, his eyes wide and desperate.

"Come on!" he screamed, "It's too late! Come on!" He turned toward the door, pulling Trotter and Falathor with him. A horrible ringing filled Trotter's head as he stumbled after the Elfit and the Man. Casting one last glance behind him, he followed his companions and fled into the night.

Trotter tore down the side of the hill with only one thought on his mind: to escape the horror of what he had seen. The darkness around him was clean and pure, and he sought to bury himself in it and win forgetfulness of unclean light and unnatural dark. The cool night air was like a draught of wine, and the calm starlight as sweet as sunrise on the morning after a nightmare. He ran until his lungs ached and his shoulder burned like fire. Blood trickled down his neck; the wound had broken open again. But he could not stop until exhaustion stilled his legs for him.

Finally, he fell to the ground unable to move further and lay there like one dead. The earth was reassuring under him, and the grass seemed soft as a downy feather bed. He closed his eyes and breathed in the cool air. Gradually his panting breaths slowed and he lay without movement on the foot of a down where he had fallen, half-dreaming, wishing only for a forgetful sleep and a far distant awakening in a land where shadows and evil were but dreams to be laughed at in the merry sunshine.

It seemed to him as he lay there that he heard a sweet voice singing without words. It was a song of water; a song of rivers and lakes, of rain falling softly on trees, of the great sea roaring against the rocks. Tiny mountain streams leaped merrily down high rocks, joining with lily-covered rivers to tumble into still, deep lakes clear as glass. He could hear each drip, the voice of every drop of water, each with its own note, an innumerable orchestra of tiny bells . . .

Long he lay there in half-consciousness and fever dreams, and the night passed around him, but no living being disturbed him.

Much later, it seemed to him, Trotter opened his eyes and stared up at the sky above him. It was streaked with rose and orange; dawn had come. He lay upon the grass, covered in dew and thirstier than he had ever been in his life. Slowly, stiffly, he struggled to his feet and looked around him.

He was surrounded by hills, none of which looked familiar. There was no sign of the large down with the mound on top, nor of the hollow where he and Anna had slept. Anna, Beleg, and Falathor were nowhere in sight. The other four men had not come out of the barrow; Trotter did not like to think what had happened to them. He had wished them no ill, and even the sight of their misinformed leader would have pleased him at that moment. He took an uncertain step forward and began to call out his companions' names.

"Anna!"

His voice broke the silence in vain. No answer came. Trotter began to wander, paying no particular attention to where he was going, calling for the others until his voice grew hoarse. Only hills and grass stretched out around him, as if Men and Hobbits and Dwarves and Orcs did not exist, and the world was an empty place of endless skies and open lands. The sun began to rise higher. He was hungry and terribly thirsty, and loneliness began to grow on him as well. Once more he called:

"Beleg!"

This time, though, he thought he heard a faint answer coming from his left. Hope lightening his footsteps, he began to hurry towards the sound, calling as he walked. Like some ancient wanderer or a first-awakened Elf-lord he went, searching for his kindred in a strange new world. His footsteps were silent, and his tread light; like a mild wind he passed over the hills. Then he rounded a low ridge and came to the end of the Downs.

Beleg stood there, at the base of the last westward hill, and with him was Falathor. The Man sat upon the ground, motionless, his head in his hands. He did not seem to be a threat now; though he still wore his sword, Beleg paid no more attention to him than if he had been a boulder. Off to his right, Trotter saw the beginning of a forest; the Old Forest it was called, for it had been there before the Men and the Elves. He hurried towards Beleg, and the Elfit came to meet him on light feet.

In the sunlight Trotter could see that the Beleg's hair was indeed brown, tinged with green and gold like the forest itself on a spring morning when the sun rises over the treetops. He was clad in brown and green like a Wood-elf and looked a great deal better than Trotter himself. His eyes were the deep blue of the evening sky, and shone like two stars as he spoke.

"Trotter!" he said, "So you too are alive. I am glad of it. I should have gone mad with only this Man for company; he will not stop moaning about folly and guilt and other such idiocies and refuses to even spar with me to pass the time."

Trotter looked at Falathor curiously, but said nothing to the Man, who seemed too absorbed in his own thoughts too notice anything. Something else weighed urgently on his mind.

"Where is Anna?" he asked.

Beleg shook his head. "If you have not seen her, I do not know," he said, "I sent her running out of the barrow ahead of me, but I have not seen her since. I … there was some madness upon me last night. I thought of nothing but flight." He looked troubled, "That was an evil which should not have been stirring. A shadow is growing on the land, and the dark things awaken that should sleep beyond all knowledge."

"I do not know what it was," Trotter said, shuddering, "But it took the lives of four men with one blow." He looked once more at Falathor, who had not said a word. "What ails him?" he asked of the Man, "Does he still wish my death? Or does he mourn his fallen comrades? I pity him and hope he will follow us no more, whatever his part in all this is."

Beleg shrugged. "He is a Man," said the Elfit, "They are strange beings." But if he was going to say more, he did not get the chance. Once more the pounding of horses' hooves came to Trotter's ears, and he turned to stare in the direction of the sound.

For the first time in days a smile lit up his face, and he nearly laughed with joy.

Around the ridge, down which he himself had walked only a few minutes ago, rode Anna upon the back of Nori, and five other horses galloped behind her. The morning sun fell upon her face, softening its sharp lines and painting her pale skin a delicate rose. Her untamed golden hair streamed out behind her, a banner of colour above the horse's grey mane, and there was a wondering smile upon her face. The jewel about her neck gleamed in the morning light. She looked like a Man-child from the depths of time, when the Second People were first awakening, and the world was still wide and wild with great plains and tall mountains and endless forests unmarred by the hand of evil.

Trotter did not take his eyes from Anna, or he might have seen the strange expression on Beleg's face as the Elfit watched her ride towards them. It was not a look Trotter would have expected to find there, though he knew little as yet of Beleg and his moods.

Then Anna had reached them and, leaping off Nori, caught Trotter in an embrace like a girl greeting her long-lost brother.

"I thought you had been left behind in the barrow! I wanted to look for you but then I couldn't find the right hill, but I did find the horses, so we can finally eat something because I'm starving, aren't you?"

Trotter laughed under the onslaught of words, but the mention of food did not sound at all unwelcome either.

"I was worried about you too," he said, "We were afraid you wouldn't come back. I called for you, but you must have been too far to hear me."

"We?" Anna said, glancing at Beleg with suspicious eyes, "So is the Elfit with us now? So much for 'we have nothing to fear from the ghosts of men'! You will have to do better than that, Elfit, if you wish to be sung about in the legends of the real Elves. Next time you want to help someone, try not leading them into a den infested with dark creatures. We could've done better on our own."

Beleg snorted, undaunted. "Much better, as captives of the great Man over there. You're lucky to be free, not to mention alive, which you would not be without my unlooked-for and unthanked-for help. You wouldn't have gotten very far at all … although you did run pretty far last night. Frightened, little lady?"

"No more than the great Elfit warrior with his great long bow," Anna retorted, "That is an awfully big stick … compensating for something, little Elfit?"

"Can we stop arguing and eat something," Trotter groaned, "And then maybe talk about what we're going to do next?"

Anna grinned and whistled, a sharp, musical sound like the cry of a little bird. One of the horses neighed and trotted over to her side.

"Anna, you're a marvel!" Trotter said, as she pulled a waterskin, a loaf of bread, and some cheese and meat out of the horse's saddlebag. She looked at him and frowned.

"You're bleeding again," she said, "We'd better not have any more adventures like last night or you'll fall apart. Let me bind that up for you. I think there's someone's extra shirt around here somewhere. You're going to have a nasty scar, in any case."

Trotter acquiesced gladly, and after Anna had wound a bandage around his neck they sat down in the grass for their first meal in far too long for a Hobbit to go without food. Trotter offered some waybread to Falathor, but the Man only shook his head mutely. Trotter racked his brains, but he could not begin to guess what was wrong with Falathor. Why wouldn't he speak? Or attack them or … something? The Big People often acted strangely, in his opinion, but he still could not make sense of this withdrawn silence.

By the time they had finished, the sun stood at nine o'clock in the morning sky, and Trotter's thoughts began to turn to their path from there. When he brought up the subject, it was Anna who voiced her opinion first, and her answer was not uncharacteristic.

"Let's leave this cursed place," she said, "Leave the Elfit to his wandering and the Men to their wars. There is the Shire, or the Eryn Vorn, or the wide plains. Why stay here where the powers of darkness gather? Where even those who call themselves the light and the good are hunting you? They call you a traitor, unjustly. They hate me for what I am without asking who I am. We owe them nothing."

But Trotter was shaking his head.

"The Witch-king is growing stronger," he said, "And if he wins Arnor he will not be content to stop there. No place is safe from him, and the only protection is to resist. And even if I were to die thankless, my name black in the eyes of my own people, I would consider it worth it to strike a blow against the Witch-king, who is the beginning and the end of all distrust and hatred. There is one thing we can do now." He waved his hand toward the North, where the King's city lay somewhere in the distance.

"We must go to Fornost, to warn the King of the events at Bree and the treachery in Arnor," he said, then turned to his friend, "You, too, are a part of it, Anna. You carry the Starflower, whatever it is, around your neck, and Lomin desires it and hates you because of it. I am sure you have some part to play yet, despite your feelings."

Anna looked as if she wished to argue, but was forestalled by Beleg.

"I would like to go with you," he said seriously, ignoring Anna's murderous glance, "I offered you my help and led you into grave danger in doing so. Almost we were all killed because of me. I do not know exactly why you are fleeing or what your plans are, but I believe you are innocent of this crime of treachery. I ask to go with you, if you would have me as your companion." He looked at Trotter, not Anna, when he asked this, and the Hobbit realized with surprise that he had somehow become the leader.

He opened his mouth to answer, unsure himself what he was going to say, but stopped when a long shadow fell across their seated council. Looking up, he saw Falathor standing there, towering above them, a terrible look on his face and his sword in his hand. Before Trotter could react, the Man knelt on the ground in front of him, placing the sword upon the grass with its hilt towards Trotter.

"Forgive me," he said.


	4. Questions Without Answers

For a moment Trotter could only gape in surprise. Although Falathor had obviously been considering something deeply for some time, this was the last result the Hobbit had expected. In fact, he had almost forgotten the presence of the young Guardsman who, now that he was no longer threatening, had little to do with Trotter's own plans. He wondered briefly if it was a trick of some sort; but no, Falathor simply continued to sit on the ground with lowered eyes. The Man's face was grieved and he knelt upon the ground, but there was still pride in his bearing.

"I'm afraid I don't rightly understand," Trotter said uncomfortably, "For what must I forgive you?"

Falathor now looked up at him. The sun still shone brightly around them, but the Man's face was dark and clouded as the sky before a storm. For the first time, Trotter had a chance to examine him carefully close up, and the feeling of familiarity surged up in him again. It was almost eerie … who did Falathor remind him of? The Man's eyes were grey, like those of most of the Dúnedain, but his hair was a light shade of strawberry blonde, reddish-golden and unusual for members of that people. His face was fair, but not cheery; he looked lonely and proud.

"For unjustly accusing you and attempting to take your life on a false charge," Falathor said in reply to Trotter's question, "I branded you as a traitor without knowing the truth. I heard you speaking now, and last night you saved my life, though I had threatened to kill you. The green fire of the barrow-wight would have struck me down had you not intervened. I acted rashly..."

"It is not you who are at fault here," Trotter said, a bit impatiently, "But he who misled you." He was rather flustered by Falathor's deference. After all, Trotter was only a very young Hobbit, and certainly not used to having great tall Men kneel before him and ask his forgiveness.

"There is nothing to forgive," he continued, "But if you wish my forgiveness I give it freely. As for your service, I want none of it. I am a Hobbit, not a leader of armies!"

"Good thing, too," Anna noted. She was sitting cross-legged upon the still-green grass, and with her stained Dwarven garments and tangled locks she looked rather like an alley cat drying out after a long night of rain. Trotter doubted he looked much better himself. "With your height you'd disappear in a battle and the army would end up leaderless," the girl added with a grin.

Falathor did not laugh, and if anything, he seemed even more troubled than before. He ran his hand through his hair, and once again memory tickled at Trotter's mind. He wondered if he should ask Falathor if they had met before. To his surprise, however, the Man brought up the topic himself.

"You are not as I imagined you," he said to Trotter, "I always thought of the Little People as well, stout and foolish and not much else. But to your credit, you seem every bit as extraordinary as Lomin always said."

Trotter was absolutely dumbfounded. It took a moment before he could even speak. "Wh-what?" he stuttered, "You know of me? Lomin told you about me? Why?"

"Of course he told me about you," Falathor said, "Lomin is my brother."

At this revelation, Trotter felt roughly as if an oliphaunt had sat on his head. Lomin's brother? He had a brother? And suddenly, it all made sense – why Falathor was so familiar to him. He looked like Lomin, only younger and less formidable. Still, he could hardly believe it. He had never considered the idea that Lomin might have siblings.

"He never mentioned you," Trotter said finally, in some embarrassment. And he had openly accused Lomin of treachery … did Falathor believe him? The Man was certainly not thirsting after his blood anymore – had he been convinced, or was he merely biding his time and playing along for his own reasons?

Falathor shrugged. "We are not always on the best of terms," he said drily, "I had not seen him for some years, and when I arrived in Bree, he was not there. I learned that he had gone on a mission to gather information about the actions of the Witch-King, so I decided to wait until he returned. I planned to remain in Bree for some time … but when Lomin returned, it was with an army of Orcs following on his heels. Then there was the battle, and the Gate, and your escape. When I met with him he asked me to lead one of the parties of riders sent after you, and I agreed, though I was surprised. The last time we had met, he had told me about you, and I found it difficult to believe that the friend he spoke of then could become a despised traitor."

"No wonder," Anna snorted, "It's not true, anyway."

"Yes, so you say," Falathor agreed, "And I believe you, I think … but you have said more, and that is not so easy to believe. Do you seriously mean to tell me that my brother is guilty of treachery? That he purposefully lied in order to place blame on you, and was not merely mistaken? It is difficult enough to imagine Lomin making a mistake, and nearly impossible to picture him as a traitor."

"I would say the same," Trotter said, "Had I not seen it with my own eyes. Don't think the fact brings me any joy! I still don't understand – why did he do it?"

"I think you had better tell me everything you know," Falathor said, "And perhaps I will be able to throw some light on the matter." He listened carefully as Trotter recounted his confrontation with Lomin and his subsequent capture and escape. The opening of the Gate and seizing of Bree did not seem to disturb him, but when Trotter described the Starflower he looked thoughtful, though he did not interrupt.

"This is all very curious," Falathor remarked, shaking his head after Trotter had finished his tale, "Almost impossible … but it fits, somehow. I feel that it is true. Do you ever have the sense that you have heard something that is absolutely true, no matter how strange it seems?"

Trotter had to admit that he had never felt anything of the sort. Anna did not reply at all, but looked at Falathor rather apprehensively. Trotter hoped she wouldn't decide the Man was insane and refuse to deal with him any further; he himself had a multitude of questions, and hardly knew which to ask first.

"Then you believe Trotter's story?" Beleg asked Falathor. The Elfit had not spoken for sometime, merely listened contemplatively. Trotter wondered what Beleg thought of the whole matter, and whether he was still eager to join them after it had come out that they were as good as outlaws.

"I'm afraid so," Falathor answered reluctantly, "The tale is quite convincing, most of all the part about the Starflower. What did you say Lomin said when the lady touched it?"

"He said 'they have claimed it'," Trotter said, "Why? Does that mean something to you?"

"No," Falathor admitted, "But the necklace … may I see it?"

Anna fished the silver chain out of her shirt and pulled the Starflower over her head. She did not give it to Falathor, and he did not ask for it, merely examining it from afar. The white and silver jewel gleamed innocently in the sunlight, unsullied by the shadowy mysteries enshrouding it.

"Well, do you know what it is?" Trotter asked.

"I don't know anything," Falathor said, "I might make a guess, but … it is safer not to. It could be any number of things. One thing is certain: if Lomin wants it, it must be important. Perhaps it has some hidden magical power. Such things were not always so uncommon as they are nowadays."

Trotter looked at the necklace doubtfully. It was beautiful, yes, but it shown no sign of being magical – no shining lights or healing powers or any of the other things one usually associated with magic.

"In any case," Falathor said to Anna, as she hung the jewel back around her neck, "I would suggest you keep it, and make sure my brother does not get his hands on it."

"You think he will try to regain it even after the first attempt failed?" Beleg asked, frowning.

"My orders specified that I was to kill Trotter and bring Anna back to Bree – paying special attention that anything she carried with her be returned as well. Supposedly she had robbed some personage of the town of valuable property. Now that Lomin's first plan failed, he will only try harder."

Trotter thought Falathor was probably right. Lomin would not give up so easily … it was a trait he had often admired about his friend. The idea occurred to him that Lomin might come after them himself, and he shuddered. He did not ever want to be in another situation like the night before.

"And still nothing is any clearer," Beleg said, "Why did this Man betray Bree? What does the Witch-King plan? And what part do you play in this – where do your loyalties lie?" He directed the last question at Falathor, who looked rather offended.

"And you, Master," Falathor said without answering Beleg's question, "Who are you? You wander alone in the Tyrn Gorthad in dangerous times, and speak as one who knows much, or believes he does. I would say you are Elven, but you have not the lofty stature and mien of that fair people, nor would they a fear a barrow-wight, having themselves a magic stronger and brighter."

"Nor would they be foolish enough to lead us into a barrow in the first place," added Anna with obvious satisfaction.

Beleg, surprisingly, said nothing. Trotter suspected that the Elfit wished to keep his secrets to himself, at least for the time being. Though Trotter was curious about Beleg as well, he preferred to save his questions until later. He had not yet decided if he wanted the Elfit with them as a permanent companion. What, after all, was he? What was he doing alone in the wilderness? Why did he wish to join them? There was a strange air about Beleg, of recklessness perhaps, or rebellion, or despair. In any case, there was still the matter of Falathor to settle.

"The sun climbs high," Trotter said to his companions, "And it's high time we left this place." He turned to Falathor. "You have my forgiveness as you asked," he said, feeling slightly silly speaking such solemn words, "Now what will you do? I am going to Fornost with Anna. If you wish, you may come with us to the King. We would welcome your company."

Anna did not look at all as if she would welcome anyone's company, but luckily said nothing. Falathor, in any case, shook his head.

"There are too many questions here," he said, "Questions without answers. And there is only one way to be sure of the truth." He picked up his sword and re-sheathed it, then stood up, brushing the dust off his clothes. Briefly, he shaded his eyes with his hand, gazing first toward the Old Forest and then back eastwards into the Barrow Downs.

"What are you going to do?" Trotter asked, a suspicion growing in his mind.

"You are right to go to King Arvedui," Falathor said, avoiding the question, "He must know of the events that transpired here. But meanwhile Bree remains in the hands of a traitor, hard though it may be to believe him as such."

Falathor whistled, and one of the horses, which had been grazing peacefully and enjoying some well-deserved rest, trotted to its master, neighing and tossing its head. It was a tall chestnut, and obviously it knew Falathor well; it stood patiently while the Man leaped easily onto its back.

"Wait a minute!" said Trotter, scrambling to his feet, "Where do you think you're going?"

Falathor grinned with a gay recklessness. He spurred his horse once and it reared onto its hind legs, its long shadow wavering on the ground. Falathor's red-gold hair and the animal's bronze mane fanned out equally, halos against the sunlight.

"To talk to my brother!" Falathor cried as the horse's hooves touched the ground and it bounded forward into a gallop. In moment it had carried its rider back into the lee of the downs, where the shadows swallowed them both. He did not look back once.

Trotter watched the figure of the lone rider until it disappeared completely. Then he turned back to his companions.

"It's time we were going as well," he said, "I want to reach Fornost as soon as possible. And I'm sure no one else wants to remain sitting here on the doorstep of the Downs." He began to brush the dirt off his clothing, turning his face to the rays of the sun. It was late morning, and though he still felt somewhat tired, a restlessness was upon him to be on his way.

"What about him?" Anna said, standing also and jerking her head at Beleg, "Is he coming with us?"

"What, so anxious for my company?" said Beleg, rising lithely to his feet, "You could use my protection; in those clothes you're likely to be mistaken for a scarecrow, and we wouldn't want someone to tie you to a pole in a cornfield, would we?"

"It'd have to be a mighty short pole for you to rescue me off it," Anna retorted.

"Who said I'd rescue you?" the Elfit smirked, "I usually rescue ladies in distress, not straw-headed strays."

"Anyone passing will think you're the lady in distress," Anna replied with equal sarcasm, referring pointedly to Beleg's shoulder-length hair and typical Elf-like spotless appearance.

"Look! It's Eärendil with the Silmaril on his brow!" Trotter suddenly yelled as loudly as he could, pointing wildly at the clear blue sky above. Beleg and Anna both stared around with wide eyes, then looked at him with blank expressions on their faces.

"What?" said Anna.

"Really," Trotter said, "If you two are going to go on like this the whole way to Fornost, I'll just leave you both behind."

"Then you accept my companionship?" Beleg asked as if nothing had happened. He seemed to have forgotten Anna's existence in the space of a second.

"Yes," answered Trotter, "But you must tell us who you are and what you are doing here. We don't have time to wait, so we will ride and you can tell your story on the road."

Beleg agreed to this and, surprisingly, Anna put up no objections either. Trotter suspected that she was rather enjoying the verbal sparring between herself and the Elfit. At least she had turned her attention and sharp tongue away from him; he was not particularly witty, and always fared badly in such banter.

The three travellers quickly packed what remained of their meal into the saddlebags of the horses they meant to ride. Beleg choose a medium-sized gray to be his steed, after shortening the stirrups to fit him. Though smaller than Man or Elf, the Elfit seemed to be able to ride a normal horse comfortably, more so than Trotter at least. Anna, leaving Nori to Trotter, also chose a new animal. It was a light-footed, spirited little black stallion whose name was Raven, or so Anna called him. She rode bareback, and Trotter thought she looked far more at home here, upon the back of a horse in the wilderness, than she ever had in Bree. He himself stuck with Nori, the small Hobbit-horse they had rode from Bree.

"What about the others?" Anna asked with concern, meaning the other two horses, "We don't need them, but I don't want to leave them here in Tyrn Gorthad."

"We don't have much other choice," Trotter shrugged, "Besides, I don't think any harm will befall them. They will find their way to a safe place, perhaps in the Shire or in the Old Forest. But we must be going. I don't want to take the path through the Downs again; it brought us only ill luck before. Let us go straight to the north. We will pass through the inhabited lands of Men that way, and stay off the North Road at the same time. And Fornost is almost a straight line to the north from here, if I remember correctly."

With this decision, the small company set off northwards. The Downs rose up on their right, but they kept well away from the looming hills, travelling swiftly between them and the wild Forest on their left. The sun continued to shine pleasantly and birds sang from under the eaves of the trees, but Trotter still slumped tiredly in his saddle. He thought with longing of Bree and the hobbit-hole where he had lived with his father. The whole thing seemed rather vague now, as if once part of his life had been closed forever when he had left his hometown. He had no idea what waited for him now, and if he was glad about where the sudden turn in events had led him.

Trotter realized that he was not the only one sunk into gloomy thoughts. Anna rode at his side without a word, chin on her chest. What was on her mind was impossible to tell; Trotter doubted she was missing her former life, as he was. Though he felt he knew her as well as a sister – strange, as in truth he knew so little about her – he could not guess what thoughts were in her mind now.

In the end it was Beleg who roused them from their silence.

"Come!" he said almost merrily, "Come out of your dismal thoughts! The sun is bright and the air is fresh. There is no shadow upon us! Let's have a song then; songs go well with wandering, as I should know, and so should you, Trotter, if your name is any indication." He looked with a twinkle in his eye at Trotter. "I have heard that Hobbits have a ready tongue with a tune, especially when they are on the road. Will you not sing for us?"

It was impossible not to be affected by the Elfit's good mood, and Trotter found himself smiling in return.

"I am no poet!" he said, "I have no skill to match even the poorest of singers. But I do know a tune or two from the streets of Bree . . ." And to his own surprise, he began humming and then singing a song that he knew from his childhood days. It was a merry melody, and the words went something like this:

_"Oh! Orald sits upon a tree_

_A merry old man is he!_

_Oh! Orald sits upon the willow_

_Yes, indeed, a merry old fellow!_

_The forest is his feasting hall_

_Hey! Merry derry dol!_

_The river is his foaming ale _

_Dol! Merry derry hey!_

_No Man is he, or mountain dweller_

_Nay, nor Hobbit, silly feller!_

_Though he sings, not an Elf_

_Perhaps he is a tree himself!_

_Oh! The forest heeds his tune_

_In cold December or bonnie June!_

_Oh! Orald sits upon a tree_

_A merry old man is he!_

_Oh! Orald sits upon the willow_

_Yes, indeed, a merry fellow!"_

As Trotter finished the song, Beleg sang the last few lines with him. The Elfit laughed merrily, his dark eyes twinkling as if with some mischievous secret. Shadow and sunlight fell across his face and he seemed a wild thing, belong to nature rather than civilization, like Orald of the song himself.

By this time, the way between the hills and the woods had grown narrow. They were travelling almost beneath the branches of the Old Forest, and the rustling of leaves had accompanied Trotter's song at its end.

"Quite nice," Anna commented, "Though a bit ambiguous. It doesn't tell you much about Orald, in the end. Who was he?"

"Well, I can't say," Trotter admitted, "Frankly, I've no idea who Orald is. Sounds like a rather nice fellow, though - very 'merry' indeed! Although I don't consider any river water to be a substitute for ale, no matter how foamy."

"Yes, merry!" Beleg agreed, "It does not do him justice, but he would like it still! I met him once just recently, you see, on my way here from Harlindon."

"Met him?" Trotter cried, his spirit of adventure and his curiosity reviving. In his excitement, he did not even notice that Beleg had for the first time mentioned something about his past.

"Then he's real, and not merely a song!" the Hobbit continued, "Tell me, what is he like? Who is he? The song says he's neither Man, Hobbit, Dwarf, nor Elf - so what is he?"

"That I can't answer; in fact, I wonder if he knows himself," Beleg replied thoughtfully, "He's a funny creature, all dressed up in a blue coat and yellow boots, and always singing. The trees do listen to him, as far as I could tell. He's called Orald by the Northern Men, and Forn by the Dwarves, but to the Elves he is known as Iarwain Ben-adar. 'Oldest and fatherless' is how it would translate into Westron, but what that means, I couldn't tell you."

Trotter grinned. "Ah," he said, "But you can tell us of your meeting with him. I, for one, would be glad to hear of it!"

"Yes, tell us," Anna agreed, seeming happy to have something to occupy her mind with as well, "If you end up being a good story-teller, I just might forgive you your other faults."

So Beleg began the tale of his meeting with Orald of the Woods, and as he spoke the trees beside them seemed to listen with approval.

"I had, as I said, left Harlindon, having tired of the lonely life I led there, which is a matter for another story which it seems I will have to tell as well quite soon," he said, seeing Anna and Trotter's curious glances.

"But first things first! We are now at the tale of Orald. I was following the Brandywine southwards, having come around from the north through the Emyn Uial where I had wished to gaze upon Lake Evendim. I had been thinking that I might come to the Shire and visit the homeland of my father, for he was a Hobbit, as you might have guessed, since it was apparent to you immediately that I am no true Elf." Here he looked for a moment at Anna, but she did not interrupt, only looked back silently. After a moment, Beleg continued his tale.

"But I had not yet decided if I wanted to set foot in the land of the Halflings, and so was walking by the side of the river. If you remember, the weather was stormy last week, and the day was a rather gloomy one; the sky was gray and clouds were moving in. The riverbank was steep and I was walking close to the edge beneath the eaves of the forest. I was rather tired, and I must admit that I was daydreaming a bit; in any case, my attention wavered from the path. I remember, I was thinking about the Shire and wondering if perhaps I could stay there for a while, if I would be at home among Hobbits as I was not among Elves. So there I was, my mind off in the green fields of the Shire and not at all on my surroundings, and before I knew what was happening I had tumbled off the path and straight into the waters of the Brandywine!

"Now, that water was shallow there by the bank, and I was in no danger; but I had gotten a good ducking and it was cold. Furthermore, I was angry at having become so distracted as to fall from the path. I struggled out of the water and back up the bank, cursing as only an Elfit can the whole way. The wind was chilly and I was shivering, berating myself for my own stupidity. I decided to make a fire, to warm myself. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be much dead wood about at all, and I was forced to go someway into the trees to even get out of the wind. Finally, I got tired of walking around shivering and decided to just break some wood off a tree. I stopped under a likely looking hazel and set down my pack, determined to make camp and warm myself up. Now, this may sound a bit odd, but I can assure you that it's all perfectly true.

"I began to pull branches off the hazel, but I stopped almost immediately. It was the oddest thing: the tree was screaming! Not loudly like a person would or anything, but the rustling of its remaining leaves held a definite note of anguish. The branches seemed to bend away from me, shivering and shuddering and creaking in horror! It reminded me of nothing so much as a lady in distress. I felt very strange about it, but I was still freezing and determined to get warm, so I decided that it was just fancy and reached for the branches once more.

"It was then that I first heard the singing. It was actually very much like your song just now, Trotter, with lots of 'merrys' and 'dols' and such. It was coming from someway off in the trees. Of course, I wondered who would be out in the wilderness, and singing like that too!

"My question was answered soon enough, for a few moments later the strangest looking person I have ever seen bounded through the trees and to my potential campsite. Well, perhaps bounded isn't quite the right word; danced might be more like it, or skipped, or frolicked. In any case, the person now before me was about my own height, with a long brown beard and merry twinkling eyes, a blue coat and yellow boots. He was still singing away - something like this:

'Hey dol! merry dol! ring a dong dillo!

Ring a dong! hop along! fal lal the willow!'

"I had heard stories of Iarwain Ben-adar, of course, and I was certain almost at once that this was he. I asked him, then, if he was the one known to the Elves as Iarwain Ben-adar, and Orald to the Northern Men.

"'Orald! Iarwain! Many names for a merry old fellow!' he laughed, 'But what is your name, young wanderer, far from town and city?'

"I told him my name, naturally, and he seemed not at all surprised to see me, or to hear that I am an Elfit; in fact, he laughed again, and his eyes twinkled as if he knew some jolly secret.

"'The Elfit wanderer from Harlindon,' he sang, 'Wishing now he had some sun, to warm his chilly path!'

"I agreed that I would like some sun, as it was indeed cold, but that I would make do with a fire if only this tree would let me use some of its branches.

"'Aye! Burn the graceful hazel tree, to warm your lonely company! But see, she groans and creaks with fear; for she'll be ash if you come near!'

"So saying, he danced off into the woods again, while I stood there staring after him. Let me tell you, I was completely dumbfounded! Presently I realized that the clouds had moved off and the sun was shining quite brightly. I was not even cold anymore, and barely damp. The hazel tree stood next to me, not making any noises now, and Iarwain, or Orald, was like a memory of a story already. It was like waking from a dream, and I decided that the best thing to do would be to continue on my way. So I turned and made my way back to the path along the river, wondering about my strange adventure. There, then, is my tale!"

"Well told!" said Trotter, "It seems you have some secrets, my friend, and I must admit I'm alive with curiosity. So you have come from Lindon, the land of the Elves? I think I understand now what you mean when you say 'Elfit.'"

"Elf and Hobbit," Anna said quietly, with a strange note in her voice, "And you thought of it yourself, did you? There aren't any other Elfits, are there? Only the one, who wanders the wilderness alone and spends his time falling into rivers and rescuing ladies in distress."

"And what are you?" Beleg replied with a twisted smile, "Hobbit or Man or something in between? What is your tale, Manling? It seems that we have something besides a sharp wit in common after all, little scarecrow."

"But it is you who must tell your tale now," Anna said, "As you promised you would when you joined us. And I am sure you love to speak of yourself anyway."

Beleg looked at her long and steadily, but her green eyes did not flinch from his blue. Leaves waved above their heads, and the sun stood high in the sky, casting shadows on their faces in strange patterns.

"I will tell you my story," Beleg said finally, "If you agree to tell yours afterwards." His words had the sound of a challenge, and his face was fierce.

"What, is no one interested in my tale?" Trotter asked with feigned exasperation. Both Anna and Beleg laughed, partly out of surprise, but with genuine amusement as well.

"No doubt it is not nearly as interesting as either of yours," the Hobbit continued, "In any case, I at least am interested in what both of you have to say. The road is long yet. Let us while it away with the telling of tales! If you both do well," he added with a grin, "Maybe I will even sing another song."

Anna rolled her eyes to the heavens in mock distress. "Then I fear even to begin!" she said.

"In that case," said Beleg, "I will begin."

So he once more began to speak.

"I am the one and only Elfit in all of Middle Earth. My father was a Hobbit, and my mother was an Elf; hence, I am an Elfit!"

"We already know that part," Anna interrupted.

"Patience, fair scarecrow!" said Beleg, "Listen and learn the true art of the telling of tales. May I begin?" Neither Anna nor Trotter spoke, so the Elfit continued with his story.

"My father was Peric Deepdweller, of the West March of the Shire; my mother is Belafalathiel of the Elf dwellings of Ered Luin. They met when my father travelled west to the Grey Havens, for he wished to behold the sea and the ships. Their love is a story for many evenings and some laughter, but I will not trouble you with that tale. Suffice it to say, my father was killed by a Warg when I was young - not just any Warg, but the Lord of the Wolves, Drekgreth, called the Iron Claw. He has upon his left paw a claw, not of iron, but of mithril, truesilver stolen from the Dwarves of Moria. It is unbreakable, and sharp as anything. My father died under its cruel bite. And so I lived with my mother's people in the woods west of Ered Luin. Have you seen it, the woodland dwelling of the Westward Forest?"

"No, I'm sorry to say I have not," said Trotter, and he meant it.

"Ah, it is beautiful!" Beleg said. His tone was wistful and his eyes looked into the distance.

"Winter or summer, the land sings with loveliness, and the trees smile." His eyes became sad. "There I lived for many years, and I learned many things: woodcraft and the High Language of the Elves, songs and stories, hunting and warcraft. My mother loved me, as did the wise among the Elves. But an Elfit is not the same as an Elf, after all. I loved laughter and food more than wisdom and craft, and playing in the forest more than singing. And I have not the immortality of the Elves. Nor may I pass upon the ships of the Grey Havens over the Sea to the Undying Lands, but am bound here in Middle-Earth like the people of my father. Ever when I lived in Lindon the sadness in my mother's eyes when she knew that I must die while she would live on followed me. And so when I was no longer a child I left my home. For some time I dwelt alone in Harlindon, west of the Blue Mountains and south, where no one lives, but restlessness seized me, and I escaped to the wild once more. Now I travel whither a whim takes me, and answer to none but my own will, or so it was before I met you. So there is my tale! But now I have spoken enough, and it is the Manling's turn."

Beleg looked expectantly at Anna, but Trotter doubted he would have much success in his wish for her story. He was right, of course.

"I have no tale," Anna said flatly, "I know only this: my father was a Man, my mother a Hobbit. Her name was Hanna Applethorn, and I carry her name, for I do not know my father's. We lived in Tharbad, and she died there when I was young. After that I lived in an orphanage until I came to Bree. I do not know where I was born or when. There is nothing else to tell."

"There is always more to tell," Beleg replied, staring at her intently, "Why did you leave Tharbad? Why are you here now? I have told you my story, though I reveal my identity to few. Repay me in kind, as we agreed."

But Anna was clearly unwilling to comply with the Elfit's request. She stared back defiantly, and silently. Trotter sighed; once again the atmosphere had grown tense, and apparently it was up to him to smooth things over. He wondered briefly if he should attempt to tell a joke, but discarded the idea.

"If you are curious as to why Anna is here with me," he said to Beleg, "Or as to why I am here, for that matter, I will willingly tell you. You know some of it already, from listening to our conversation, but I will tell you the full story."

So, beginning with the evening of the day of the attack on Bree, Trotter began to tell all that had befallen him: his sword, the death of his father, the betrayal of Lominelen, the Starflower, his capture, and his and Anna's escape from the town. Beleg listened quietly without interruptions, but when Trotter finished, the Elfit asked to see both Nyéra and the Starflower.

"What do you wish it for?" Anna asked, reluctantly handing over the gem.

Beleg turned it over in his hands several times, examining it closely as if he were reading a book.

"I know much Elf-lore," he said absently, "I thought there might be some sign on it, some indication of what it is that is invisible to your eyes. But there is nothing." Shaking his head, he handed the Starflower back to Anna, who hung it around her neck with a relieved look on her face.

"May I see your sword now?" Beleg asked Trotter. The Hobbit handed over Nyéra, wondering what Beleg might be able to tell him about the mysterious blade.

Beleg looked at the sword for a longer time than he had at the Starflower. He examined the blade, and the hilt, and especially the misty stone set into it. Nyéra was dark as ever, untouched by its surroundings. Finally the Elfit looked back up at Trotter.

"It does not look like Elvish work," he said, "But it is very old. You said its name was Nyéra – that means 'sorrow' in the High Elven, or at least likens to that word, which is in truth 'nyérë.' I do not wonder that it could carve steps out of a stone wall, for sorrow is a sharp blade indeed. I am very curious – did you father not say where he found the sword?"

Trotter shook his head, as he accepted Nyéra back from Beleg.

"I do not know where it came from," he said, "Perhaps someday I will be able to ask one of the Wise. But now it is of little importance. Look, there is the Crossway!"

Indeed, in front of them they could now see a thin line of trees running straight to the east and west. It was the Crossway; they had come beyond the Downs and, once they crossed the Road, would be well on their way through the half-wilderness to Fornost.

"Now our tale-telling must come to an end, I'm afraid," Trotter said, "I think we ought to be rather careful and quiet here – we don't want anyone to notice us. There are many miles yet to cover before we come to the King's City, and I would like them to be a good deal less exciting than the Tyrn Gorthad was . . ."

Anna and Beleg agreed with him readily, and so all three travellers sunk back into their private thoughts as they passed silently through the trees bordering the Crossway and headed towards the North.

King Arvedui of the Dúnedain was himself deep in thought, though he knew nothing of the three small fugitives hurrying towards him with their dire tidings. He strode softly down the Sunset Corridor in the Castle of the Thousand Windows in Fornost, a tall brooding figure troubled as a thunderous sky. No good news had come to him since he had sent his messengers on the road to Gondor, while around his kingdom the Enemy had closed in and his choices had grown limited. The Weather Hills had been assaulted once more, and though the forces of Arnor still held the range, many men had been lost – a loss the kingdom could ill afford. Ever it seemed to Arvedui that his own forces dwindled while the Enemy waxed, as if the Witch-king drew warriors from stone or gave pure darkness form to battle for him. And still the palantír remained dark.

Arnor had been a strong kingdom once, and might still have been so, had things taken a different turn. The blood of the Men of Númenor was great - but their number was few. And Arnor had been divided, its strength split by disagreements from within, and the East had fallen to the Witch-king in the end of that struggle years ago. The land was wide, and many evil things were created, or twisted into foul form by the Dark Powers, while the allies of Men were few; there were Elves, and Dwarves, and Hobbits, but cut off in islands of light and civilization amidst an ever-growing wilderness. Arvedui's options were running out, and so he turned now to a last source of hope, seldom consulted and ambiguous at best.

The Sunset Corridor was so called because its windows faced to the West. The hall ran in a north-south direction, and its left-hand wall was lined with large glass windows looking out onto a distant view of the Emyn Uial, the Twilight Hills. The walls were of white stone, and when the sun sank behind the horizon, as it was doing now, the dying rays tinted cold stone a flaming golden colour. The hall glittered with bright light like a path of fire, but Arvedui could not appreciate the sight. For it seemed to him that this sunset was too much like the fate of Arnor; beautiful in death, yet dying nonetheless.

He stopped then, facing a door opposite the row of windows. It was plain and unremarkable, but it opened into a splendid room of pleasant size, neither large nor small, but lovely and comfortable as a childhood dream. Few knew the name of its resident, and fewer still in that day would have realized its significance had they known.

The King stepped into the room, his shadow starkly outlined on the floor by the burning light streaming through the door behind him.

The room was shaped like an octagon. Its three eastern sides bulged out beyond the wall and opened into a good-sized balcony above an inner courtyard of the castle. Each of the eastern sides was filled by one large window, which in the morning welcomed the sunrise into the room, but were now flooded with a twilight that flowed to meet the last rays of the sun in the middle of the room.

The courtyard below was small and unfrequented by members of the household. There was a small pond in the middle, and green grass around it, and rosebushes with white and red blossoms ringed the whole area. Next to the water was an empty space where nothing grew. It was a strange wound in the paradisiacal garden, the only bare spot.

The room itself was thoughtfully furnished; there was a bed, a table, some deep armchairs, a large hearth and many flowers that lent their sweet scent to the air. Every object in the room was of fine craftsmanship and high worth. And yet its inhabitant was no prince of Men or Elven-lord.

An old man sat there in an armchair with its back turned to the fireplace, facing the center of the room. There was no fire burning, nor light besides that of the sun coming through the open door. For he had no need of light; he was blind and mute, helpless as a babe. And yet he commanded respect even from the King, and they called him Malbeth the Seer.

Ah! Malbeth the Tall, Malbeth the Strong! So they had called him many years ago, for he had been a great warrior, a pillar of strength for his people. He had bested many dark dangers and fell evils - but there comes a time when even the strongest fail. He had lost both sight and voice in bitter battle with the Enemy when he was but a young man still in his prime, and his sinews had weakened and his strength faltered. Yet fate is kind to some; or perhaps one would say it was cruel, and the gift it gave was a cold one. For even as Malbeth lost the use of his eyes, a new sight was given to him. With a clear mind he looked ahead and saw what will be, or what might be. Though he could not speak, at times his tongue would regain its former knowledge, and he would cry out with cracked voice a glimpse of what was to come.

Standing there in silent doubt, Arvedui's mind recalled unbidden the memory of the last time he had consulted the Seer. It had been twenty long years ago, and yet the bitter remembrance stood out in his mind sharp and chill as brittle frosted leaves in a winter wind.

_ … He knelt upon the ground before Malbeth, hands balled into white fists. His fingertips were bloody where they had dug into his palms. The seer could not see him, of course, but the old man could feel that something was not right; he stood uncertainly on his weak legs, turning his blind eyes this way and that like a flower searching for the light._

_They were in the queen's antechamber, and it was dark. A thin streak of light spilled onto the floor through the open door to the bedroom, but Arvedui did not look that way. He saw nothing but Malbeth's face, as if somewhere on the white, wrinkled skin the answers to all his questions were written._

_"Poison!" Arvedui gasped, "She was poisoned!"_

_Malbeth trembled like a leaf in the wind. His robe was white as well, and he looked like a ghost, glowing faintly in the darkness. Arvedui felt that if he spoke too loudly his breath would blow the old man away. He was too grief-stricken to care. If Malbeth could not tell him what he wished to know, then let him tremble! Let the wind tear him to pieces!_

_In the bedroom, Arvedui's wife Fíriel lay dying, lips purple and heart faltering under the iron heel of poison. Their three sons and baby daughter had been sent away, and only the King and the physicians remained to watch the painful struggle, powerless. Arvedui had never felt so helpless, or so blindly furious. There was a murderer in the palace, and he would be found, he would pay! If the seer was the only person who could tell him the truth, then so be it._

_"Who did it, Malbeth?" the King panted, "Who poisoned her? Will she live?" He grabbed the old man's hand and held it tightly, eyes fixed rigidly to the ancient face. Malbeth did not answer; his lips moved, but he only mumbled unintelligibly, as the very old do in times of stress. Arvedui could have screamed in frustration._

_The King dug his hand into his pocket and drew out something that glimmered in the stray light from the doorway. He clenched his fingers around it, then placed the object in Malbeth's hand and closed the withered fingers around it._

_"From the Queen," he said, "Do you remember the Queen? Fíriel? She was always kind to you. For her sake, tell me what I need to know!"_

_Malbeth opened his hand, and a silver star tumbled from it, catching and spinning in mid-air as it dangled from the chain looped around the seer's fingers. It was a necklace, Elellótë, an heirloom of the royal house of Gondor. Fíriel had brought it with her when she married Arvedui and took up residence in the North Kingdom, and always wore it. The necklace was silver in colour, but it was more than that in truth – it had been forged of mithril, the unbreakable metal. A single white stone adorned the centre. Malbeth lifted the jewel and laid it against his cheek, feeling the cool smoothness on his skin. He seemed to draw some strength or awareness from it; he stood up straighter and his cataract-covered eyes blinked repeatedly. Then the dried-out lips parted and he croaked in his hoarse, unused voice a few sparse words._

_"The Queen is dead. The Elellótë has no bearer. When next a fair one places the silver chain about her neck, the doom of the North will be sealed. And when the North falls, the Queen's murder will be avenged."_

_Arvedui waited in vain for Malbeth to continue. The seer's shoulders hunched again, and he closed his tired eyes, his hands curving into claws around the necklace._

_"What?" Arvedui demanded, "Have you no more to say?"_

_The Queen is dead … _

_"No!" Arvedui cried, "You're wrong! This time you're wrong!" He grabbed the Elellótë out of Malbeth's hands, ignoring the seer's cringe of surprise, as if in taking back the necklace he could take back the prophecy. The silver flower slipped from his hands, bouncing over the floor as he reached after it. It came to a rest in front of the doorway, in front of two black-booted feet._

_Arvedui looked up into the haggard face of his chief physician. The man looked grim, his black beard sticking out scruffily, matching the black circles beneath his eyes._

_"I'm sorry, Your Highness …"_

_He did not have to hear more._

Arvedui took a deep breath, aware suddenly of where he was and what he had come to do. It was the present that needed his attention now; the past was long finished, and he had chosen then the only thing possible to do. Fíriel was long dead, though the pain of that loss had never left him. The murderer had never been found, and according to the verse would only come to light if Arnor fell … which he could not allow. If the bearer of the necklace heralded the end, then there was a simple answer: remove the necklace. All had been remedied those long years ago, and the Fall of Arnor forestalled, if the verse spoke truth. And yet, Arvedui could not but doubt; his kingdom seemed to be failing around him, and his own power waned. So he had come to Malbeth the Seer to ask one last time for a glimpse of the future.

He looked down at his shadow lying in grotesque size stretched in front of him on the floor. All was done and long over with.

The King turned to the Seer, aged by now to a mere husk of life.

"Malbeth," he whispered, "What do you?"

The old man's eyes were closed, and he did not stir at the sound of Arvedui's voice. He seemed as fragile and ephemeral as a gleam of moonlight, glimmering out of the dusk. He spoke no word.

"Malbeth!" Arvedui cried in despair, "Tell me what you see!"

But this time there was no answer.

Trotter, Beleg, and Anna travelled uneventfully for several days after leaving the Tyrn Gorthad. They passed the Crossway quickly, after making sure that there was no one within sight, and made their way steadily northwards. The arrow wound on Trotter's neck healed swiftly, and apparently whatever poison had been in his blood had been slight, for he was not troubled by sickness. It was obvious that he would always bear a scar but at least, he reflected, he was alive, and things could have turned out much worse.

Trotter was not sure how many other parties from Bree might be searching for them, but he was not about to take any chances, and reminded his companions to keep a vigilant eye open.

Neither Beleg nor Anna seemed particularly interested in keeping a watch, however – they were far too busy arguing. Trotter wondered in mild amazement how two apparent outcasts whom one would expect to be withdrawn and suspicious could have so much to say to each other. Not that it was a normal conversation; more like a series of verbal fencing matches. Neither of them seemed to be upset by this, however, and Trotter decided that it just went to show that some people have strange ideas of entertainment.

They were riding now through a lightly settled part of the kingdom. There were no large towns or cities in this part of Arnor, only villages and farms scattered at intervals throughout the hills. They stayed away from these when they saw them, keeping to the left of the King's Road, which was a distant line far away on the eastern horizon when it was visible at all.

It was a lovely country, all valleys and little rolling hills. Despite the late season, grass as green as early spring carpeted the ground; small stands of trees marched along the ridges of the hills. The air smelled fresh and spicy with the odours of rain and wood. Many small streams leaped from springs in the hillsides to run down through the valleys, pooling for a time in one place, then swirling on again on their merry paths. Waterfalls cascaded over gleaming dark rocks, scattering rainbows upon the grass like many-coloured coins thrown by a king to his adoring populace. Trotter felt he could almost see the faces of the streams and understand their multi-noted language. The tiny waterfall dancing over a ridge in the hill could almost have been a small girl, calling with sweet voice to the older brother of a somewhat larger stream further down the valley.

Evening was falling, and the stars were beginning to come out in the night sky. The moon was waning and would not give much light after nightfall; they would have to halt soon and make camp before it became too dark to see. The cool evening air seemed to give the country around a softened feeling, like a slightly blurred painting.

Trotter thought sadly of long afternoons spent tramping through woods and fields much like these, with Lomin or his father or by himself at times. He wondered if Falathor had returned to Bree yet, and if so, what fate had befallen the Man. In any case, Bree would be safe again soon. In a few days they would reach Fornost and the King would put things to rights. Perhaps he would be able to return before a fortnight was over, or perhaps he would go to the Shire for a while; he had relatives there, of course …

"All I'm saying," Trotter heard Anna say, interrupting his thoughts, "Is that spotless white blouses are usually considered feminine, and I assume you deny that title, although I suppose it could be open for discussion…"

"I am NOT wearing a spotless white feminine blouse!" Beleg replied heatedly.

"Then what is that white material under your coat?" the girl countered.

"Wouldn't you just love to know," Beleg smirked, "I must admit, I wasn't expecting that warm of a reception when I joined you … but I suppose it's desperation that leads you to such shameless displays of interest."

"It would have to be," Anna acknowledged, "Nothing less than last-ditch desperation could induce me to look at you."

Trotter burst out laughing. He leaned forward on the neck of his horse, sides shaking and tears squeezing out of his eyes.

"Easy, friend," Beleg said, looking annoyed, "She isn't that funny!"

Anna just looked triumphant. "Acknowledge my superiority," she said.

"In what?" Beleg asked, "Basic sentence construction? What other hidden talents to you have? Apparently buttoning your shirt properly is not one of them."

"And what might you be staring at my shirt for, pray tell?" Anna said while covertly trying to fix her buttons, which were indeed fastened rather clumsily, not to mention that two of them were missing altogether.

"To see if it's spotless, white, and feminine!" Trotter answered for the Elfit.

Beleg and Anna groaned.

"What?" Trotter said indignantly, "It's not funny when I say it?"

"Trotter, my friend," Anna said, grinning at him, "I suggest you stick to leading armies and fighting barrow-wights and leave the wittiness to us. Or to me at least, since the Elfit couldn't even by a long stretch of imagination be termed 'witty.'"

Trotter rolled his eyes. "You two are worse than a pair of Hobbits in their tweens," he said, reigning in his horse "And I'm tired. Let's strike camp. Here is as good a place as any."

They had stopped in a small dell between two hills. A tiny stream trickled along the bottom, but there was dry grass by the side of it. Towards the west the hills grew lower, flattening out to a long field that led to a small stand of trees. The Evening Star could be seen shining brightly in the sky. Trotter dismounted and began to break camp, followed by Anna and Beleg.

If he thought manual labour would still their tongues for a time, Trotter was dead wrong. His companions continued to discuss proper travelling attire in a most irreverent manner and, being a generally merry and good-humoured person (like most Hobbits), Trotter could not keep himself from laughing at much of their dialogue. This, of course, slowed the rate of their camp-making enough that any true woodsman or ranger would have shaken his head sadly at their progress. It was already deep twilight when the horses were finally unsaddled, hobbled, and allowed to graze in the dell.

"Can't we risk a fire?" Anna asked, hugging herself. It was autumn in the North, and the evening was chilly; nor did Anna have particularly warm clothing, and she was thin enough that Trotter sympathized with her in the cold air.

He hesitated. They had not dared to light a fire on the previous nights. Trotter feared that another roving party from Bree might spot them, and they could not count on escaping another such encounter. On the other hand, in this country any smoke would be taken to be coming from a farm or cottage hidden among the hills, and they were all cold and tired. Finally, he nodded.

"We'll keep it small, though," he said quickly, "And we need to gather some wood first. That small grove over there would be a good place to start, I think." He waved vaguely off towards the westward stand of trees.  
"Good!" Anna said, "I'm sure I'd freeze if I had to live through another night of cold wind, and the Elfit's snoring doesn't help much either."

"You think I need to sleep?" Beleg laughed sarcastically, "I've been keeping watch over your dreams every night. Last night I had to drive off a dragon too. It wasn't so hard; he thought he would get a lovely maiden to eat, but when he saw you I think he lost his appetite. You're lucky to have some one who doesn't sink into slumber as soon as he stops moving to watch over you."

"Great!" Trotter said, "If you're not tired, you can go get some wood for us."

Beleg didn't seemed to mind the idea, and after one more devilish grin at Anna, ran lightly into the falling dark towards the wood.

"Honestly," Trotter said to Anna, "Must you two carry on like that? He's really a very tolerable fellow."

Anna shook her head. "I don't know," she said, sounding confused, "Something about him just, well, makes me nervous, and angry. He so, so . . . well, I don't really know what I want to say!" she finished in a rush. "But he thinks he's so high above me, with his Elvish knowledge and his tragic wanderings, I just can't help getting angry!"

"Since when do you care what people think?" Trotter asked softly, "You never seemed to me like a person who would care about others' opinions. You might not believe me either, but I admire you for it."

"That's because everyone has the same opinion of me, and if I let it bother me I should go mad," Anna answered acidly, "No one else cares about me, and so I don't care about them. It works out quite well that way for everyone involved. Perhaps I don't even care about myself, for that matter; perhaps there is no worth in me that any but a fool could see."

"Actually, I care," Trotter said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Anna looked at him, and her gaze softened. The two of them stood on the grass in the starlight, a pair of small, shadowy forms that might have been invisible to any passers-by; but they were as clear to one another as if they stood in the light of the Two Trees themselves.

Anna tilted her head back to look at the stars slowly appearing in the sky. She sighed once, long and softly, and it seemed to Trotter that her whole soul was in that sound, gentle and lonely and hidden.

"You care," she said. Her voice was a whisper like the turning of a leaf in the wind. "Why do you care? You are travelling in secret through danger of death to help people who would kill you and consider it a good deed. You care about me, and about Falathor though he tried to kill you, and about Lomin though he betrayed your home to the Witch-king. Why? We do not deserve it, you know. Anger and despair and arrogance and treachery … we do not deserve the love of some one like you."

"By those standards I don't deserve myself," Trotter snorted, "And love exists to be given. Why do you look for the darkness in yourself? There is much to be seen there, much that is beautiful and joyful as well."

Anna reached out slowly with one hand. It wavered there in the air between them, that small hand, unsure of what it reached for. She looked as though she might weep, or scream, or both at once.

Trotter caught her hand in his and held it; he could feel her cool skin trembling.

"And what do you see," Anna asked, "When you look at me?"

He looked at her. She was pale and wreathed in shadow, her hair falling in wild twilit tangles beyond her shoulders, her clothes dark rags, her eyes dark, dark, with only the slightest gleaming of light in them. And as she watched him he felt that she waited for his words as for a pronouncement of doom, as if what he said now would reveal to her the Truth.

He covered her hand with both his own then and answered, smiling.

"A friend."

Then she did not weep, nor scream, but smiled back at him without irony or bitterness, with a simplicity that has no name. They stood there for a moment, hand in hand in a starlit dell, two fugitives who might find rest perhaps only with each other. Then the sound of footsteps came to their ears, running footsteps, and a shout of alarm.

"Trotter!"

It was Beleg calling. Startled, Anna dropped Trotter's hand and turned to stare towards the forest. Trotter gripped the hilt of his sword in sudden alarm, wondering what could have befallen the Elfit. It was not long before he found out.

"Trotter!"

Beleg materialized from out of the shadows and stumbled into the dell. He was flushed and looked as if he had been running for quite some time.

"What is it?" Trotter cried, alarmed, "What's wrong?"

Beleg stood before him and Anna, panting heavily. He looked frightened, much more so than when they had been hunted by armed riders or when they faced the barrow-wight. Trotter feared to guess what evil thing they had stumbled across now; did the Witch-king somehow know of their errand to the King and seek to hinder them?

"We've been found!" the Elfit gasped, "They are coming now!"

"Who?" Trotter and Anna asked loudly at the same time.

Beleg's eyes were wide and all the blood had drained out of his face as he answered.

"The Elves!" he cried.


	5. Singing of Swords

Falathor crept silently through the bushes, squinting into the dusk. He had ridden all day without halts and reached Bree at sunset. The town had been easily visible from afar – a dark column of smoke rose above it, pointing grotesquely at the sky. He supposed they were burning the bodies of the Orcs left over from the battle. The pillar of smoke had an unpleasant look, a black mark marring the peaceful countryside.

But it was not the smoke that made Falathor crouch, tensed, under the trees clustered around the Crossway. His tired horse whickered in fear beside him, and he smoothed the stallion's nose, murmuring absent-mindedly to the animal. Whatever was upsetting his horse, he felt it too; what was more, he saw it.

Bree's wall towered a stone's throw before him, mirrored by a wall of shadow cast upon the earth. The scene seemed deserted – no doubt there were Guardsmen posted on the ramparts, but there were invisible, and no sound escaped from beyond the shut gate. And yet, he had seen something slip away from the wall. It had looked like just another shadow, but it moved by itself. He had thought at first it was a man, very tall, vague in the twilight, but he had been filled with such instinctive fear at the sight of it that he had actually squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he had opened them, all sign of the ambiguous shadow had disappeared, and the wall stood silent and lonely before him.

Whatever it was, he decided finally, it was gone now. But his task remained.

He straightened, stretching his muscles and bracing himself for what was to come. He was deadly tired; two nights without sleep had left their mark on him. For a moment he considered turning back – he could sleep for a night and face this later. Dangerous waters tossed before him, and it was not wise to swim them with his strength and wit dulled by fatigue.

No. If he put it off now he would never be able to do it. That was a coward's way out.

Resolutely, Falathor led his horse toward the South Gate. It was almost completely dark by now, but he had no trouble making out the wall, looming high enough to block out the stars. He had reached the smaller door meant for single travellers and was about to knock when it opened by itself. Torch-light spilled through, and he saw the familiar streets of Bree through the doorway. The torches rested in the hand of the Guardsman who had opened the door. Surprisingly, Falathor recognized him. He did not live in Bree and knew few of the folk there, though he was an honorary member of the Guard, due to his brother's rank as Captain. This Guardsman, however, was an acquaintance of his; they had met over an ale in the Prancing Pony on one of his visits, and become quite close friends.

"Navri!" Falathor said, "You're on duty late. How fares the town?"

The red-bearded Dwarf peered up at him. "Bree has suffered nothing more since you left, save that the place reeks of Orc ashes now. You have come back quickly, and I can't help but notice that you are alone. Where are the members of your company?"

"Dead," Falathor said shortly, stepping inside the gate. He had not known the men under his command very well, and their deaths did not touch him personally; but he considered the deaths his fault. It had been his responsibility to lead them, and he had bungled it badly. But even that thought had to be shelved for now. He had other, more important matters to see it.

Navri banged the door shut and rammed the bars and latches into place. By the torchlight, Falathor caught glimpses of the guardhouse and the South Tower. They were well-manned, from what he could see – Bree was taking no more chances. The soldiers did not greet him, however, remaining silently watching at their posts.

"The town is as silent as a graveyard," Navri grumbled gruffly, "The fools are afraid to speak and the barkeep in the Pony won't even serve ale. Says we should be mourning, not drinking. Lot of nonsense, if you ask me – what's the point in defeating the Witch-lord if Bree turns out as bad as it would if he ruled it?"

"We've hardly defeated the Witch-King yet," Falathor answered drily, "Though it's nice to hear someone so confident about our chances. Others I have heard are less optimistic."

"Obviously, those others are not Dwarves!" Navri said, "Dwarves never give up, and we never forget. Why, if this were a Dwarf delving, there would be an army of my people marching to Carn Dûm right now to wreak revenge on the skulking coward for attacking us in the first place!"

"No doubt, no doubt!" Falathor agreed, "But few of them would return to tell the tale, I deem. Waiting and silence has its merits, too, my friend!"

Navri merely muttered under his breath. Stealth was not much to the liking of the belligerent Dwarf, but he was no fool, and he saw the logic in Falathor's words. Raising his torch, he squinted at the Man's face.

"You look like you just forged five mithril coats without rest," he remarked, "An good ale is what you need, if that blasted Butterbur man will give you one. Will you come to the Pony with me? I can ask the boys to take my watch."

"No, no," Falathor said, shaking his head, "I don't have time for drinking now. I have to talk to my brother immediately. But I must ask a favour of you, if it isn't too much trouble."

"Ask away!" Navri said, bowing and sweeping off his hat, "Navri, at your service!"

Falathor almost grinned at the Dwarf's over-enthusiastic politeness. He had a feeling that Navri was being ironic, but it was hard to tell.

"Take my horse to the stables and see that he is watered and rubbed down. The poor thing has been running all day and can hardly keep on its feet. I would look after it myself, but I do not have time. Will you see to it?"

"Naturally!" Navri said cheerfully, "Go about your business in peace, knowing that your noble beast is in good hands!" He eyed the horse rather sceptically – Dwarves did not make good riders, and avoided horses when possible. But he took the reins from Falathor's hands without protest. The horse lowered its head and began to nuzzle Navri's beard, to the Dwarf's very obvious horror. Falathor grinned.

"Aren't such gestures of affection touching?" he said as Navri pulled his beard away from the horse, muttering about brainless animals.

"Go on, you!" Navri said, "Go talk to the Captain, if you must! I'll take care of the great monstrosity!"

Falathor clapped him on the shoulder and turned to leave. He looked back once, to see Navri leading the horse down a different street, then returned his attention to what lay before him now.

The streets were silent, though brightly lit. His lonely footsteps echoed on the paved road. There was no one outside, and all the doors and windows he saw were closed and shuttered tightly. As he reached the eastern quarter of Bree, signs of the battle became more obvious; here and there a singed or entirely burned down house popped into sight, and there were bits of debris scattered about the pavement.

When he arrived at the East Tower, the guards saluted him respectfully, and he returned the gesture. He hoped they wouldn't gossip – he had returned alone, and would have to explain to the families of his fallen companions what had happened, but he was hoping to put it off as long as possible. When he stepped into the tower, for a moment he deeply regretted that he had ever come to Bree. He could have avoided this whole mess to begin with … but on the other hand, that could have meant the end of Bree and all of Arnor as well. He sighed, squaring his shoulders, and began to climb the stairs that would lead him eventually to Lomin's rooms.

He was about to knock upon the plain wooden door, but changed his mind at the last minute. Holding his breath, he leaned against the door, listening intently. At first he heard nothing; then a dull, repeated thunking sound became audible. With each thunk, the door vibrated. What by the Valar was Lomin doing?

There was a different sound now … footsteps. Someone was walking towards the door. Quickly, Falathor straightened and, setting his teeth, knocked loudly three times. The door opened immediately, and he found himself face to face with his brother.

"Falathor," Lomin said, apparently unsurprised, "Back already? Won't you come in?" He stepped back, clearing the way.

Falathor walked inside as nonchalantly as he could, and Lomin closed the door behind him. Then he realized what the strange sounds he had heard were; several short knives were sticking in the doorway. Apparently Lomin had been practicing his aim.

Lomin pulled two of the knives out of the thick wood and began playing with them idly, leaning gracefully against the wall. Falathor noticed suddenly that the index finger on his brother's right hand was missing. A bandage concealed half of the hand. How had he come by the wound? During the battle? In any case, it did not impede his agility with the knives.

"Well?" he said, "What do you have to say?"

"It's nice to see you too," Falathor answered sarcastically, "My dear brother. How have you been spending your time? I see that Bree has been struck mute since I was last here, not to mention been rained on by Orc ashes."

Lomin lifted his eyebrows. "Are you criticizing my work?" he asked, "Save the sour comments for later. What have you accomplished? Did you find the fugitives? Where are they?"

"Yes, I found them," Falathor said, "As for where they are, I would say about half-way to Fornost by now. There were quite insistent on going – said they had an important message for the King. Once I heard their tale, I must say I agreed with them. Some very interesting and enlightening words passed between us."

Lomin had stopped twirling and flipping the knives and was staring at his brother with narrowed eyes. His lips were compressed into a thin line, and he looked as dangerous as Falathor had ever seen him. Moving as fluidly as a snake, Lomin began to roll the knives across the backs of his hands, walking past Falathor towards the far side of the room.

"Interesting and enlightening …" he repeated.

"Yes, very," Falathor burst out, spinning to follow his brother, "Why did you do it, Lomin? What came over you? Have you gone mad? To betray the kingdom like that! Half the Guard is dead because of you! You forfeited your honour! You betrayed your people and blamed it on your best friend!" He stopped, panting, staring in disbelief at Lomin, who remained as cool as a frozen lake.

"You seem to have picked up a lot of dangerous ideas somewhere, little brother," Lomin said, "I wouldn't go repeating them if I were you, or …"

"What?" Falathor laughed, "Are you threatening me? Come on, Lomin! I'm not a child anymore, you can't frighten me like you used to! I know what you did, so don't try to deny it. I just want to know one thing: why. What did they offer you? What price did you set on your soul?"

"My soul?" Lomin hissed, "What do you know of my soul? Prices, reasons! You're a stuffed-up, thick-headed fool, Falathor, as you always were! And you dare to come here and babble on to me about honour! No, a true man isn't bound by honour; true freedom means freedom from morality as well, from the conventions set by dim-witted creatures who think they are living while they blunder about in circles in the dark."

"And I suppose you've found the light now?" Falathor asked derisively.

It happened so fast that it was almost the end of him. Lomin's hands flashed, and the knives spun through the air, straight towards his heart and throat. Reacting instinctively, he swept his sword from its sheath and parried the barely visible silver streaks. The double clang of metal against metal ran out, and he found a second later that he was still alive and unharmed, the daggers scattered on the floor.

Quick as a flash, Lomin tore one of the swords from where it hung among his collection on the wall, and leaped at Falathor, forcing the younger man against the wall. Falathor ducked just in time; he felt the wall vibrated as it cracked above him. He spun under Lomin's arm and dashed around the room, putting the wooden table between himself and his brother. The two of them faced each other over the unfortunate piece of furniture, swords ringing in their hands, tensed on the balls of their feet.

"You were always far too nosy," Lomin snapped, "Poking your grimy fingers into my business whenever you got the chance. You'll never understand me, brother, and you'll never live up to me, so you might as well stop trying." He began to sidle around the table. Falathor matched his every step, keeping the distance between them equal.

"You believe I want to be like you?" he sneered, "Do you even know whose side you are on anymore? You're just bitter, and you think you have to be dramatic about it. That's what all this is about, isn't it? The story of the world, with Lominelen as the star. Some star you've turned out to be – no friends, no home, no wife or children. What kind of a tale does murdering your friends make?"

Lomin growled. His grey eyes were practically glowing, but he did not lose control of himself. Unfortunately, Falathor was aware that his brother was probably the best swordsman in Arnor, and though he was a good hand with a blade himself, he doubted he could best Lomin in a fair fight. But his brother had to wield the sword in his left hand, and if he could provoke Lomin enough that he began to make mistakes, he might have a chance.

"Speaking of being nosy," he said, "I had an opportunity to learn some things that might interest you while I was in Tharbad. I picked up the trail of your old heart-throb, if you want to know."

Lomin laughed. "So that's how you spend your free time! - snooping into the love affairs of other people! Too bad you don't have any of your own, or I might return the favour!"

Suddenly, the older man lunged forward. Falathor brought up his sword to block the stroke, but he was mistaken in regard to Lomin's intent. Instead of striking, Lomin kicked the table as hard as he could, sending it barrelling into Falathor's chest. All the air rushed out of Falathor's lungs as he found himself crushed between the wall and the table. It was only an instant of immobility, but that instant almost cost him his life.

Lomin's sword flashed forward, and it struck Falathor in the face. The younger man felt a blinding pain in his left eye, and a hot warmth as blood streamed down his cheek. He cried out in surprise and pain, clapping his hand to his face. Out of the corner of his uninjured eye, he saw Lomin's next stroke just in time, and managed to leap away before the blade could reach him.

Falathor backed against the wall, one hand covering half his face. His eye – his eye burned as if it were on fire. He couldn't see. There was a red curtain covering his vision. He held his sword out in front of him, wavering. Where was Lomin? A cold weight formed in his gut as he realized that he had failed. He could not fight half-blind.

He half-saw Lomin stepping slowly closer to him and tried to clear his sight blearily. But his brother made no move to attack as of yet.

"I'm afraid you've gotten yourself into a dangerous situation," Lomin said, sounding grimly amused, "Too much talk brings trouble, as they say."

Resentment flared up in Falathor. He was going to be murdered by his own brother, and the bastard had the gall to mock him as well. But he had one weapon left, and with a feeling of extreme pleasure, he put it into use.

"Oh, but I haven't finished talking yet," he said, "My tale is not done. I take it you remember that old lover of yours, and no doubt you know that she died years ago … but perhaps you didn't know she had a child. Yes, a poor, abandoned little thing that never even knew its father, much to its own benefit. I hear it turned out rather badly – the Tharbad council had it banished for murder, apparently."

For a bare moment, his vision cleared, and he saw with satisfaction that his dart had struck home. Lomin's face was a mask of shock. He seemed to have forgotten that he had been meaning to kill Falathor, and merely stood frozen, a myriad of emotions flickering over his face: sorrow, nostalgia, regret, dread, anger. Unfortunately for Falathor, it was anger that won out in the end.

"Serpent!" he said, "I should have cut out your tongue, not your eye!" He stepped closer to Falathor, and with one stroke, knocked the sword out of his brother's weakening hand. It was all Falathor could do to keep from fainting from pain as it was, but he tried his best to look defiant to the end. Lomin, however, was not done with him yet.

"Luckily," he said, "I can return the favour, while we're on the subject of lovers. The last time I was in Fornost I had a run-in with that charming lady-friend of yours – the King's daughter. What is the name again – Ildris? Indris? No matter. Now, I know you're awfully fond of the girl, but I'm afraid she doesn't quite reciprocate the feeling. She was shockingly insistent that we spend some time alone together … and I'm not the kind to refuse a lady."

Forgetting his weakness in a red rush of anger, Falathor gathered his remaining strength and hurled himself at his brother. He would crush Lomin's throat with his bare hands for those words. But his brother was too quick for him; he side-stepped Falathor's head-long dive, and the last thing Falathor saw was a shining bolt of lightning, before the sword connected with his head.

 

Navri opened the small door in the South Gate for the second time that day, wondering just how many more times he would have to let red-headed Dúnedain in and out of Bree. It was Captain Lominelen who demanded that the gate be opened for him this time, and he wanted out, not in. The Captain's horse danced impatiently, no less so than its master, who seemed to be having a problem controlling his facial muscles – the corner of his mouth kept twitching.

Navri undid the latches and locks slowly, listening to the creaking of the metal. "Did Falathor find you, sir?" he asked. He had heard nothing more of his friend since the young man had disappeared into the winding streets of Bree.

"What?" Lomin asked distractedly, "Oh, yes, yes … he had an important message. I have to leave for a while on some business. I'm leaving Bree in his hands until then."

"Good thing, too," Navri said, pulling open the door, "That young human has some sense in his …"

But the Captain had already galloped through the gate and disappeared down the road.

 

For a moment Trotter wondered if Beleg was merely joking as he so often did. But no, the Elfit seemed truly upset. He was breathing quickly and seemed ready to run or fight, but preferably run. His bow had remained on his back, though; at least he didn't appear to be ready to shoot at Elves, however strangely their sudden appearance might have affected him.

"Elves?" Anna asked, and she sounded as confused as Trotter felt, "And this is a . . . problem of some sort?"

Beleg stared at her for a minute, then seemed to pull himself together. He straightened and tossed his head slightly so that his disordered hair fell back into place. In the evening dark Trotter could not discern his expression, and when the Elfit spoke his voice was calm.

"Of course not," he said icily, "I just thought you might like to know so you could at least wash your face and brush your hair before coming into the presence of the noblest people in Middle Earth. But then, Elves are known to be compassionate and have a strange fondness for dirty, furry beings, so maybe they'll take to you anyway."

Beside Trotter, Anna clenched her fists and stepped forward, obviously ready to hurl herself at Beleg despite the fact that he was both bigger and stronger than she and carried a bow and belt-knife while she was unarmed. But at that moment Trotter cried out in surprise and wonder, for far behind the Elfit, the Elves rode out of the wood like dim starlight made flesh and set to walk the paths of the world.

They rode on tall horses, gray as shadows in the night, glimmering like moonlight on a dark lake. Their horses' hooves made no noise; only a faint sound like the tinkling of little bells reached Trotter's ears on the breeze. Their steps were quick and light as they came singing out of the trees, passing through the grass and up the hill towards Trotter and his companions. There were a great many of them, fifty at least, but that seemed neither very much nor very little, neither crowded nor lonely. Swiftly and silently they flew through the night, and almost Trotter thought that they would pass them by. But then the leader, or at least the Elf riding in front, reigned in his horse and turned toward them.

"Hail, Beleg of Lindon!" he called in a voice that seemed on the point of laughter or song, or perhaps both at once, "Hail Trotter of Bree and Anna Applethorn! Long is a day for weary travellers, and you have chosen the best spot in the country for a resting place. I hope you will not mind of we share it with you!"

The Elf dismounted gracefully, and in the starlight Trotter could see his face. His skin was smooth, but he was not young. His eyes shone and his skin glimmered like the gems of Elbereth above. Always have the Elves loved the starlight best, for when they awoke in the deeps of time at the beginning of the world it was this that they saw, and beautiful it seemed to them beyond all else. And so they honour above all others Varda, who is also called Elbereth, that great Lady who made the stars in the sky, and they remember her in many songs of praise.

"O mighty Elf!" Trotter said, feeling small and clumsy, "I welcome your company, and your fair people! Beautiful are the Eldar as moonlight on the seas, and wise as lore-masters of old!" He bowed deeply, not knowing how else to express his wonder.

The Elf laughed merrily, "But even the Elves cannot outdo Hobbits in courtesy. You have a gilded tongue, Trotter of Bree," And, wonder of wonders, he bowed in return.

"My name is Thorondil," he said, and then turned to Beleg, "We had heard you were on this route, but I was yet much surprised to find one of our own people here!"

But as Trotter looked at Beleg and Thorondil, it was obvious to him that they were not of the same people. In fact, he wondered how he could ever have thought Beleg looked like an Elf, for he was little like the fair people who stood around them. He seemed small now, dark and clumsy compared to the lofty grace and dignity of Thorondil. It was like comparing a dim reflection with a living person, a half-made puppet, a child's creation to the master's work. And obviously, Beleg was not unaware of this. He answered Thorondil in the tongue of the Elves, but his voice held no warmth. The Elf, however, seemed not to notice, for he smiled serenely. Then his gaze turned to Anna, who had not said a word since the appearance of the Elves.

"O bold maiden!" he said, "You carry the light of the blessed star in your eyes! Dear is your face and deep your heart as that of the great Ladies of the Younger People, as Morwen the Queen and Firiel the Fair." And once more he bowed.

Trotter could not see Anna's face in the dark, but he was sure she was blushing. He doubted she had ever been praised so in her life, and she seemed uncertain what to make of it.

"I . . . I . . . well, thank you," she said, and tried clumsily to curtsey, but only managed to duck her head and almost lose her balance. But Thorondil still smiled and seemed to accept the gesture.

"Come!" he said, "It grows late, and soon we will sleep. But will you not sup with us first? We have much to speak about!"

And in what seemed a mere twinkling of an eye, all the Elves leaped lightly from their horses and began to break camp. Trotter stared in awe, for though he could have sworn that they rode light and carried no baggage, yet before his eyes airy pavilions began to appear around them on the gentle hills. They were of a thin sturdy cloth, grey as shadows, and yet had about them the same light that Elves carry with them wherever they go. In no time at all, all was standing in readiness, and Thorondil lead him to sit in the largest pavilion, next to the tiny stream. Its floor was the grass of the earth, and it was warm inside, though the night was cool. There was food as well; Trotter could not have put a name to it, but it was light and filling, and pleasant to taste. They drank a deep red drink, sweet as berries and warming as wine, but it did not rise to his head as the wine in the Prancing Pony always had (although he would not have said no to the Pony's wine either; it was quite as excellent as the ale).

Long they sat and spoke of many things, and Trotter soon lost his shyness. He learned that Thorondil and his company had come from the Grey Havens, from Círdan the Shipwright, in aid of the Men of Arnor in their battle with Angmar. The Elves were on their way to Fornost to the King, and Trotter rejoiced to hear this, for it meant that they could travel together on the morrow. The Elf seemed unworried by the dark tidings spreading throughout the North that called him to the side of Men, as if it were but a passing shadow in the long sunshine of the world. But even Thorondil's seemingly untouchable calmness had its end; when Trotter told him of the events in Bree, the Elf's face darkened and he looked troubled.

"Arnor rots from within like an old tree," he said with sorrow in his voice, "How can we hope to stand, when there is nothing to stand upon? What use is battle when there is nothing to fight for? Once the Kingdom of Men was fair, and there was great friendship between the Elder and Younger People; but now that friendship fades like much else that is beautiful and noble in the world." For a while he was melancholy, but then he asked Trotter to tell more of their adventures thus far, and soon they were speaking as before. Trotter did not know how much time had passed, and he did not think to wonder where his companions where; if the thought occurred to him, he simply assumed vaguely that they must be in another pavilion, and probably much enjoying the hospitality of the Elves. In this, however, he was not altogether correct.

Beleg was not in a pavilion enjoying Elvish wine; in fact he was not in the camp of the Elves at all. He stood alone in the stand of wood from which the riders had come earlier that evening, where he had first seen them. He was leaning against the trunk of a tree, listening to the rustling of the leaves around him. It was a peaceful sound, and peace was what he desired above all else. At least, he thought so; his desires often raged in his breast, fighting deadly wars until he himself did not know his own mind. But peace had appeal to him: peace, solitude, loneliness, away from the eyes of the world.

There was no peace for him now, not with the Elves. How could one rest surrounded by such beauty when one was but a joke, an embarrassment, a child in their eyes? It would never change; he could never become what they were. He was flawed, he was _raicavë carnë_. Of course they had never said this to him. They gave no sign that he was different, but he felt it within him like a black burning coal that he could not quench. They were the lords who directed the workings of the world, and he merely looked up from the darkness to that lofty mountain peak that he could never reach. He would not climb it. That was useless, as he knew. He would walk alone in the darkness, and he would take help from no one, and scorn pity beyond all else.

But it was a lonely path for an Elfit, and there were many shadows, and he could not see through them all. The rushing of the sea was in his ears; he closed his eyes. The Sea! He had seen it, of course, tasted it, smelt it, felt it. The cries of the gulls rang in his memory. And on the other side lay Valinor, the Blessed Realm, home of the Gods of everlasting beauty. The Undying Lands they called them, for no evil fell upon that bright earth since the Dark One was cast out of the world. Sometimes ships would sail West; Beleg had seen them, the great white ships of the Elves with their silver sails, and his heart yearned to go with them, to fly west upon the wind and the waves like a breath of foam. But it was not for him. He would grow old, and die, and never would he see Valinor. Deeply he tasted the bitterness of mortality, for he was denied the everlasting life he had seen in all its glory every day of his life.

He became aware that his hands were pressed hard against the bark of the tree, but it did not bother him. He looked up, finding the brightest star in the sky: Eärendil, with the last Silmaril on the prow of his ship, the great Jewel that bore the light of the Two Trees of Old. If he had a light like that, perhaps he too could find his way across the Shadowy Seas to the Blessed Realm, like the great Mariner had. But it was useless. There was no such light for him.

Suddenly, he tensed. Footsteps were approaching him, soft but audible. It could not be an Elf; their tread was silent as an owl's wings. Perhaps it was Trotter. Beleg would not have minded talking to him, for the Hobbit's presence comforted him, to his own surprise - but somehow he did not believe that it was Trotter. That, of course, left only one person.

A moving shadow became Anna, and his suspicion was confirmed. She was walking slowly, deliberately, looking at the ground before her feet as if lost in thought. He wondered briefly where she was going, but mostly he wished she would go away. But she stopped a few feet in front of him and looked up. They stood there on the edge of the trees, between the wood and the hill.

"I know what you are thinking," she said quietly. There was a calm certainty in her voice, such that Beleg could not help believing that she really did know his mind, or at least part of it.

"Do you?" he answered with a laugh, "And why are you here? Come to gloat at last? A great Lady out of legend need not be ashamed before an Elfit, who will never be a real Elf after all!"

"You are a fool," she said tiredly, "You silly, self-absorbed, melodramatic, self-pitying, pointy-eared fool. Don't you have anything better to do? Why did you come with us? To sulk in the bushes when you should be at Trotter's side? Did you not offer your services?"

Beleg stiffened as if struck, and his eyes nearly glowed with anger.

"You overstep yourself, Manling," he said, jaw clenched, "You were not so cocky in the dwellings of Men. Take your own advice before you offer it."

Anna did not rise to the bait. She seemed strangely dreamy, almost as if she were in a trance of some sort and could not control her actions. Her eyes were wide and unblinkingly met his gaze.

"Why did you come with us?" she asked again, in a half-whisper.

He could not answer that. A voice murmured in his heart, but he crushed it, stilled it, forced it back into the dark below conscious thought. He would not speak it, think it, acknowledge it; it was not true, only a silly fancy. He could not answer.

"So it all becomes clear …" Anna said, and her voice was a whisper. She reached out toward Beleg with one hand, unaware of what she was doing.

"Beware!" she said, "There is a great longing in your heart, and a great anger. But were you to revenge your sorrows and receive your heart's desire this very moment, yet you would not be happy. For only love can make you whole!"

Her hand came to rest upon his chest, over his heart. For a moment Beleg stared at her in shock and disbelief. Her face was wild and held both joy and sorrow, but she still seemed unaware of where she was or what she did. Then he turned from her and, fast as thought, turned into the trees and disappeared into the night.

For a while Anna remained where she stood, gazing at the place where Beleg had been. Then suddenly she started and looked around her, as if noticing for the first time where she was. She shivered and drew her ragged cloak around her, but it was not cold that made her tremble. It had happened again – that odd feeling of clarity, of knowing, stronger than it had been the last time even. She had seen the Elfit leave the camp, and suddenly she had understood where he was going and why. Anna did not remember why she had followed, only that something had drawn her, that she had felt it important to say what she knew was true. How she knew was a question as troublesome and unpleasant as ever. She wondered if she should tell Trotter. He wouldn't laugh at her or believe she was going mad, but only the other hand he probably wouldn't be able to help much either. And she did not want him to know what she had said to Beleg; she did not want anyone to know.

Because a change had come about when she had touched him. It was as if some bond had formed between them, unlooked for and unwanted by either, but existing all the same. She was no longer angry. Beleg did not seem hateful to her. She would not call him her friend, but not necessarily her enemy either.

Anna shook her head. It was all too much for one night – the long ride, the Elves, and now this. Almost wistfully she recalled the wood-shed in Bree that had been her home, unglamorous perhaps, but at least familiar. Then she laughed aloud.

"Never thought the day would come when I'd want to be back in that old shack …" she said to herself as she turned back to the pavilions of the Elves.

It had grown late, and she was tired. The grass crunched softly under her feet as she walked slowly away from the trees and up the gentle slope. Light spilled out of the tents and soft music played, but everything shimmered as if behind an invisible curtain, half-way in another, happier world. The lamps were like captured starlight, and the music like the First Singing, or so it seemed to Anna's wondering senses. She had never seen Elves before, though she had heard much about them. But what she had heard did not come close to the truth, which could only be seen and experienced, and never told in words.

As Anna stepped into the light of the Elvish lamps, she heard her name being called. She looked to her right, and saw an Elf inviting her to sit with him. His name was Galion, she remembered; he had talked to her before, to her great wonder. And so, free from doubt or fear, forgetting all else, she joined those fair people for one enchanted night that would live in her memory pure and unsullied for the rest of her life.

The next morning dawned cool and misty; the Sun hid her face behind low clouds and fog, and water beaded on Trotter's cloak. They had risen with the invisible dawn, and though he had not slept until late in the night, he did not feel tired. He rode with Anna and Beleg now beside the Elves. To a mortal's eyes, the whole company could have been no more than a few shadows flitting through the mist, had they been noticed at all.

"We will go together to Fornost," Thorondil had said to him the night before, "By fast and silent ways through the hills, and we will arrive before sunset tomorrow."

No shadow of an objection had crossed his mind, and so they followed the tall Elf through billowing cloud. Trotter spoke little, for the Elves sang softly around them, and he listened, spell-bound, to their music. Little of it was in Westron; much seemed to be in Sindarin, the language of the Grey Elves of Middle Earth, which he recognized though he did not speak it. But sometimes he heard another language, a high and noble one, beautiful and old unlike anything he knew. A song rose now through the mist, mournful and melodic as the low call of a bird. A dark-haired Elf sang beside them, and these were his words:

_"A! Turindo Turambar turun ambartanen!  
Lumbuli roitanelyë ter nén i nárë  
Voro ranyanelyë mi háyë nóri  
Ar sí elendielyë i anháyanna.  
Morë ná Gurthang, nindë macil lómeo!  
Manen veryanelyë turitas?  
Utúlië i tyel vë únótimë eleni lantala!  
Avánielyë oialë, ar quéla Isil nécavë  
Ringavë autar i auri: hrívë túlëa  
An Turindo Halla, antaura Atanion fírinië!_

It was a strange song, heavy with the sorrow of loss and the passing of mortal life. Trotter wondered what it spoke about, and if he dared to ask the singer. But as it turned out, there was no need.

"A lament for Túrin Turambar in the ancient tongue of the Elves," Beleg said quietly at his side, "Túrin the Cursed, of whom the Narn i Hîn Húrin, the Tale of the Children of Húrin tells."

"Who was he? Why was he cursed?" Anna asked curiously. She had not mentioned their meeting the night before, and the Elfit seemed content as well to act as if nothing had happened. But they had not resumed their bickering either and seemed for once each to accept the other's presence.

"He was a great Man," said the Elf who had sung, turning his head to look at them. His eyes were deep and sad. "In the days of old, in Beleriand, he lived, and great was his fame, though now few know the tale."

"No wonder either," Beleg snorted, "It's a rather depressing one. Everyone dies in the end. Actually I was named after one of the characters of the Tale – Beleg Strongbow, the best friend of Túrin, although this friendship didn't stand him in good stead in the end. Túrin was cursed by the Great Enemy, and all that he did went awry, including his friendships."

"What happened?" Trotter asked. He loved stories, sorrowful or not, especially ones about the ancient days. "Won't tell us some of this tale?"

"Certainly!" laughed Beleg, "I'll tell you the most cheerful part, where my namesake meets his untimely end in the attempt to rescue the captured Túrin from Orcs – see if you like it!" And he began not to speak but to chant in a flowing voice.

_"'We must bear him back as best we may,'  
said Beleg, bending his broad shoulders.  
Then the head he lifted of Húrin's offspring,  
And Gwindor go-Guilin the feet claspéd:  
Like a log they lifted his limbs mighty,  
And straining staggered with stealth and fear,  
With bodies bending and bones aching,  
From the cruel dreaming of the camp of dread,  
Where spearmen drowsed sprawling drunken  
By their moon-blades keen with murder whetted  
Mid their shaven shafts in sheaves piled…  
As in dim dreaming, and dazed with horror,  
They won their way with weary slowness,  
Foot by footstep, till fated them granted  
The leaguer at last of those lairs to pass,  
And their burden laid they, breathless gasping,  
On bare-bosméd earth, and abode a while,  
Ere by winding ways they won their path  
Up the slanting slopes with silent labour,  
With spended strength sprawling to cast them  
In the darkling dell neath the deep thicket.  
Then sought his sword, and songs of magic  
O'er its eager edge with Elven voice.  
Then whistling whirled he the whetted sword-blade  
And three times three it threshed the gloom,  
Till flames was kindled flickering strangely  
Like licking firelight in the lamp's glimmer  
Blue and baleful at the blade's edges.  
Lo! A leering laugh lone and dreadful  
By the wind wafted wavered night them;  
Their limbs were loosened in listening horror;  
They fancied the feet of foes approaching,  
For the horns hearkening of the hunt afoot  
In the rustling murmur of roving breezes.  
Then quickly curtained with its covering pelt  
With his sword severed the searing bonds  
On wrist and arm like ropes of hemp  
So strong that whetting; in stupor lying  
Entangled still lay Túrin moveless.  
For the feet's fetters then feeling in the dark  
Beleg blundering with his blade's keenness  
Unwary wounded the weary flesh  
Of wayworn foot, and welling blood  
Bedewed his hand – too dark his magic;  
That sleep profound was sudden fathomed;  
In fear woke Túrin, and a form he guessed  
O'er his body bending with blade naked.  
His death or torment he deemed was come,  
For oft had the Orcs for evil pastime  
Him goaded gleeful and gashed with knives.  
That they cast with cunning, with cruel spears.  
Lo! The bonds were burst that had bound his hands:  
His cry of battle calling hoarsely  
He flung him fiercely on the foe he dreamed,  
And Beleg falling breathless earthward  
Was crushed beneath him. Crazed with anguish  
Then seized that sword the son of Húrin,  
To his hand lying by the help of doom;  
At the throat he thrust, through he pierced it,  
That the blood was buried in the blood-wet mould;  
Ere Gwindor knew what fared that night,  
All was over. With oath and curse  
He bade the goblins now guard them well,  
Or sup on his sword: 'Lo! The son of Húrin  
Is freed from his fetter.' His fancy wandered  
In the camps and clearings of the cruel Glamhoth.  
Flight he sought not at Gwindor leaping  
With his last laughter, his life to sell  
Amid foes imagined; but Guilin's son  
There stricken with amaze, starting backward,  
Cried: 'Magic of Morgoth! A! Madness damned!  
With friends thou fightest!' – then flashing suddenly  
Bright lightning glowed by storm clouds shrouded  
That its light released illumined pale  
With its flickering flame the face of Beleg.  
Then the boles of the trees more breathless rooted  
Stone-faced he stood staring frozen  
On that dreadful death, and his deed knowing  
Wildeyed he gazed with waking horror,  
As in endless anguish an image carven.  
So fearful his face that Gwindor crouched and watched him,  
Wondering what webs of doom  
Dark, remorseless, dreadly meshed him  
By the might of Morgoth; and he mourned for him,  
And for Beleg, whose bow should bend no more,  
His black yew-wood in battle twanging –  
His life had winged to its long waiting  
In the halls of the Moon o'er the hills of the sea…  
'A! Beleg,' Túrin whispered, 'my brother-in-arms.'  
Though Gwindor shook him, he felt it not:  
Had he comprehended he had cared little.  
Then winds were wakened in wild dungeons  
Where thrumming thunders throbbed and rumbled;  
Storm came striding with streaming banners  
From the four corners of the fainting world;  
Then the clouds were cloven with a crash of lightning  
And slung like stones from slings uncounted  
The hurtling hail came hissing earthward,  
With a deluge dark of driving rain…  
All the sunless day, and soaked and drenched  
Gwindor go-Guilin with fear speechless  
There crouched aquake; cold and lifeless  
Lay Beleg the bowman; brooding dumbly  
Túrin Thalion neath the tangled thorns  
Sat unseeing without sound or movement.  
The Orcs had gone, their anger baffled,  
O'er the weltering ways weary faring  
To their hopeless halls in Hell's kingdom;  
No thrall took they Túrin Thalion –  
A burden bore he than their bonds heavier,  
In despair fettered with spirit empty  
In mourning hopeless he remained behind."_

Beleg coughed; his voice had gone hoarse by the time he reached the end. Trotter would gladly have heard more; the tale was dark, but marvellous and enchanting, and Beleg told it in a flowing voice expressive of the sorrow and meaning it held. It was as if they had travelled back in the mist through the years to the First Age, a time full of wonders and magic. Trotter knew little of such tales, for they were not commonly remembered in Bree, but what he knew seemed to him like the shining surface of a dark lake, deep and full of secrets.

"Well told!" said the Elf who had sung earlier of Túrin Turambar, "You have not forgotten your lore. A great singer and spinner of tales could be Beleg of Lindon. It would not be an unpleasant fate!"

Beleg shrugged. "As long as my fate doesn't turn out to be that of my namesake," he said.

This left them all in a rather gloomy mood, and they rode on through the fog silently. Their path led through many valleys and rarely climbed higher, so that they saw nothing of the sun all day. It was wet and cold, though there was no wind. Sound was muffled in the thick cloud. The Elves rode around them like wisps of mist, sometimes singing or talking softly, and they themselves were barely visible to each other. After some hours the hills began to grow around them and the trees grew thicker and taller. They were coming onto the Northern Hills.

It must have been near to evening, for the fog was growing darker around them, when Trotter finally heard a call from in front. They were at that moment riding down the slope of a low ridge. It levelled out quickly under their horses' hooves, and looming out of the mist they saw the great wall of Fornost towering before them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "raicave carne" - badly made, flawed
> 
> Translation of Quenya poem:  
>  A! Túrin, master of doom by doom mastered!  
> Shadows you pursued through water and flame  
> Ever you strayed in distant lands  
> And now you have gone to the most distant.  
> Black is Gurthang, slender sword of night!  
> How dared you wield it?  
> The end has come like innumerable stars falling!  
> You have departed forever, and the Moon fails dimly  
> Coldly pass the days: winter is coming  
> For Túrin the Tall, mightiest of Men is dead!
> 
> Excerpts from The Lays of Beleriand, pgs. 50-55, copyrighted JRR Tolkien estate. Modified by the author in accordance to the canonical Silmarillion version of events.


	6. The Princess, the Pauper, and the Pawn

Minuscule drops of rain pattered against the window of the room in the west wing. It was a tall window of frosty glass, one of the many for which Menhenneth, the Palace of a Thousand Windows, had been named. Fog rolled over the stone houses of the city, veiling the familiar landscape except for a few of the tallest spires that peeked out of the grey sea. But the mist did not prevent Indithel from watching the party of riders that had arrived in the front courtyard.

She leaned her forehead against the glass, breathing softly. A few seconds later, to her annoyance, she could no longer see through the window, now misted over by her breath. Pouting slightly, she wiped the condensed moisture away and tried to get a clearer look at the new arrivals.

"Some one's come, Ravenna," she said to her companion.

The elderly lady seated in a fluffy armchair facing away from the window grunted noncommittally. Her hands did not stop their flurry of motion; she was embroidering a white veil. The design was unclear as yet, but it might have been an unfinished representation of the Tree and Stars.

"I wonder who it is?" Indithel prattered on, "Confound this fog! Why must the weather always work against me? I'm the King's daughter, doesn't it know that?"

"Really, dearest," Ravenna replied without looking up from her stitching, "You can hardly expect the weather to obey a mortal, no matter whose daughter she is."

Indithel frowned sceptically, but she was too absorbed in her observations to protest. She watched as the small group dismounted and began to walk towards the great doors of Menhenneth.

"Oh, look!" she gasped suddenly, "It's him!"

Ravenna paused her work for the first time and looked up, staring with unseeing eyes at the fire crackling in the hearth before her.

"Falathor?" she asked, "Lomin?"

"No, no!" Indithel said, blithely ignoring the hopeful tone in the older woman's voice, "Neither of your fine sons is here – it's Thorondil! You know, Father's friend – the handsome one." She giggled softly at her own daring in calling an Elf handsome. But it was true, after all. She twirled away from the window, satisfied at the circle her feathery black hair inscribed about her at the sudden movement. Then she skipped the few steps to Ravenna's chair and hung indolently over the back of it, planting a kiss on the older woman's cheek.

"I wonder what he's come for?" she said, "Something exciting must be happening! Aren't you curious?"

"Not particularly," Ravenna said, "I'm sure it's bad news."

"Oh, come, don't be so pessimistic!" Indithel said, "You're much too melancholy, sitting here and sewing all day. What about a little fun? Let's go down and see why they've come!"

Ravenna put down her embroidery and looked up in amusement at her foster daughter. Indithel's mother, the Queen, had died when the girl was a mere babe, and Ravenna had taken the child into her own care. She herself had been one of Fíriel's ladies-in-waiting, and had come with her mistress to Arnor when the marriage that cemented the alliance between the North and South Kingdoms had been tied. Shortly after their arrival, she had married a wild-spirited noble of King Araphant's court, and had borne him two sons over the years. Neither of her own children, however, had become as dear to her heart as Indithel. The two were inseparable despite the difference in their ages.

"You know what your father will say if he finds out," she remonstrated her adopted daughter gently.

"Yes," Indithel said, "He'll say I'm his most precious jewel, the most beautiful blossom in his court, just like he always does. Please, Ravenna? The day is so dull."

Ravenna threw up her hands in defeat. There was no point in arguing – Indithel would do as she pleased no matter what Ravenna had to say for or against it. The girl was incorrigible. Besides, she wouldn't mind knowing what news Thorondil had brought – perhaps the Elf knew something about the whereabouts of her ever-absent sons, who took far too little time to visit their mother than she would have preferred.

"All right," she said, "But you have to be quiet this time, or some one will notice the peephole in the end. Last time that fat noble from Annuminas heard your uncouth giggling and almost found us. Luckily he had drunk enough wine to decide his ears were playing tricks on him! But really, you must be more careful."

"But his trouser buttons were undone …" Indithel laughed, "And he didn't even notice!" Judging by her incredulous expression, one would have thought this was the funniest thing in the world.

Ravenna shook her head and stood up. She was tall and unbowed by age; her grey braid hung to her waist as thick as when it had still been red. She wore an austere black dress belted by a silver girdle, and her eyes too were more silver than grey.

"Hurry up then!" she said, taking Indithel's hand, "We have to get there before the delegation if we want to hear everything!"

Indithel grinned in excitement. The two women held up their trailing skirts and peered stealthily into the corridor to make sure no one was in sight before they began to sweep quickly along the halls. The King's audience chamber was some distance away from their room, and Ravenna began to worry that they wouldn't arrive in time. She had become quite caught up in the game, and was in truth curious about what had brought the Elves to Fornost from Lindon. They were forced to stop once when Indithel insisted on checking her appearance in a mirror hanging on the wall. Ravenna sighed in exasperation and tugged the princess along hurriedly.

"But what if Thorondil sees me?" Indithel cried.

"You look fine," Ravenna replied, "Besides, don't count on an Elf Lord falling madly in love with you – you know how rare that is."

Indithel made no comment, for they had arrived at the small door around the corner from Arvedui's audience room. It was actually a servant's nook, a place from which to serve refreshments discreetly, but Ravenna had discovered its other virtue years ago. The two women flurried inside and shut the door gently behind them. The room was deserted at the moment, but the giant cupboard stood in its usual place on the far wall. Wasting no time, Ravenna and Indithel piled inside, leaving the door opened a crack to let in some light (also, as Ravenna well knew, it is never wise to shut oneself into a cupboard completely). Indithel pried the loose board from the back and peered through.

"There's Father!" she whispered.

The two women made themselves comfortable and leaned close to the tiny square peephole in the stone wall. Ravenna had no idea how the gap had come to be there, or how by some fortune the board in front of it had loosened, but it suited her purposes quite well. The small window gave a tolerable view of the chamber beyond.

Arvedui's audience chamber was also the throne room. It was smaller and less imposing than its equivalent in Gondor, though elegant and beautiful in its own way. The room was circular, patterned with white and green marble. There were three tall windows on the north wall, reaching entirely from the floor to the ceiling, and bowing out like a balcony. This formed a smaller half-circle, raised slightly above the level of the rest of the room. On the dais stood the throne of Arnor, starkly outlined in the light falling through the windows. The throne bore no gold or jewels – it was carved of black wood in a fanciful shape, adorned with curves and twists that the eye could not follow. Allegedly it had been brought to Middle Earth on the ships of the Faithful when they had escaped from Númenor, and had belonged to Elendil himself. Every King of Arnor since the first had sat that throne and governed the kingdom from this room.

At the moment, however, the King was not on his throne. He was seated on the steps leading down from the dais, slightly to the left of the mighty chair, with his elbows resting against his knees and head bowed.

The great door opposite the throne opened, and five figures filed in. There was no announcement of the personages, no herald or trumpets; apparently this meeting was strictly off the record.

Ravenna leaned closer, surprise and curiosity warring in her. Two of the visitors she knew – Thorondil and his companion Galion. But the other three strangers were much odder. There was a Hobbit – a Hobbit with a sword. Since when did the Little People go to war? This one had obviously seen some rough times. A ragged red scar marred his throat, and even from her restricted viewpoint she could tell that it was fresh. At his side walked either a very short Elf or a very noble Hobbit, she could not quite decide which. And following behind them came a little girl-creature in shocking rags, with some kind of silver necklace around her neck. Ravenna could not make out clearly what it was. What was the child doing here? She could not be more than ten years old … but as the five visitors walked closer to their hideaway, Ravenna realized that the girl was not a child at all. She looked at least as old as Indithel, except that she was unnaturally short. A shudder crawled down Ravenna's spine. The girl could only be a half-breed.

She jerked out of her reverie as the King leaped up to greet his audience. Arvedui practically ran the length of the room and caught the leading Elf in a brotherly embrace.

"Thorondil!" he cried, "Mae govannen! You have come! Blessed be the Elves! You have no idea how glad I am to see you, friend!

"And I you," laughed the Thorondil, "I would not stay peacefully at home beneath the trees of Lindon when Arnor is in need. May the West hold fast even as our friendship!"

Beside Ravenna, Indithel sighed exaggeratedly.

"He speaks so well," she whispered.

"You're disgusting," Ravenna whispered back, "Is there a single man in Middle Earth you have not cast your eyes upon?"

"Oh, please," Indithel rolled her eyes, "I was only joking."

Ravenna declined to argue, turning back instead to the conversation flowing in the throne room.

"This time perhaps even the friendship of Elves and Men will not be enough," Arvedui was saying, "I fear my kingdom is lost, Thorondil, and nothing I do can prevent it."

"Alas!" replied Thorondil, "I can bring you but little aid, and no good news. I have with me messengers from Bree. They tell of dire deeds in the kingdom, such that my heart nearly fails. But let us not despair! There may yet be hope and a way to victory to be found. Here is the Halfling, Trotter of Bree. I met him on the road here, and know his disturbing tale. But let him tell it himself!"

The kingdom lost? Dire deeds? Ravenna bit her lip. This was no mere visit. Had things really slipped that far? And why had she not noticed? She cursed herself silently for not paying attention to the affairs of the city. Once she had kept close watch on the happenings in Arnor, but after her husband had died she had quietly faded out of public life and busied herself only with Indithel. Perhaps it was time she returned to the outside world.

The Hobbit with the sword stepped forward uncomfortably, tilting his head back to look up at the tall King. Unsurprisingly, he seemed somewhat awed by the noble company and elegant surroundings. Ravenna suspected he was a mere peasant, and had probably never been this far from his hometown before. Still, she was eager to hear what he would say.

As the Hobbit began to speak, however, he was forestalled by Arvedui. The king had glanced at the other two strangers accompanying Thorondil and Galion. As soon as he had seen the half-breed girl, however, he had turned pale and gasped in surprise.

"No!" Arvedui cried, stumbling backwards and making a gesture with his hands as if warding off an attacking evil.

The girl's eyes bugged out in surprise, making her look even more starved and unnatural. She stared at Arvedui without comprehension, as if she could not believe her eyes. Ravenna wondered why. She would have thought a half-breed would be used to such reactions by now.

"You!" Arvedui howled, pointing an accusing finger at the girl, "Get out!"

Without a word, but with tears shining in her eyes, the half-breed turned and fled from the room.

The Hobbit started after her, then hesitated. He glanced back at Arvedui, then at the little Elf, who seemed to be his friend. But only for an instant; then he, too, turned his back on the King and ran out of the room after his companion. His light feet made no sound on the stone floor.

"This is like a story," Indithel whispered, "How exciting! Do you think they're in love?"

"What?" Ravenna asked absently.

"The Little People …" Indithel began. Ravenna cut her off with a warning gesture.

Arvedui stood still as a statue, covering his face with both finely moulded hands. Indithel made a motion as if she wanted to run to him, which was of course impossible, since there was a stone wall between them. The remaining travellers, however, did not let the incident escape their notice either.

"Arvedui!" cried Thorondil, "What evil fit is this?"

The Man did not answer, merely stood there with his face hidden. Then slowly he lowered his hands. His face was grim and grey as stone. It was as if he had aged twenty years in a few seconds, and burdens weighed on him beyond that which men may bear.

"It is the end …" he murmured, "After all that has been done, the end has come, and all is vanity."

"What are you talking about?" said the Elf. He sounded angry, unwonted for one of his kind, "Will you give up before the battle is fought? What do you see in the maiden's face that saps your strength and steals your courage?"

"Nothing," said Arvedui, shaking himself, "It is nothing. I was only reminded of a bad dream, that is all. But now what about this news from Bree? I sent a messenger there days ago, but he has not returned."

"Ask rather Beleg of Lindon," Thorondil replied, "He knows the tale better than I, and has the skill to tell it properly as well."

Arvedui, Thorondil, and Galion all looked at the stunted Elf expectantly. Beleg, as was apparently his name, bowed to the King and flourished his cloak slightly. If he had not been so short, Ravenna decided, Indithel would probably have gone into fits about this Beleg; he had a fair face and a dangerous air, and his diminutive stature did not make him look ridiculous.

"I am honoured," Beleg said, and without further ado began to speak smoothly.

Ravenna listened, holding her breath. The tale unfolded before her: the burning streets of Bree, the screaming faces of Orcs, the wild ride through the Barrow-Downs and … and … her sons?

She was crushed suddenly when Indithel threw her arms about her. The young woman hugged her adoptive mother desperately, and Ravenna could feel her shaking.

"Ravenna!" Indithel whispered, "I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!"

Ravenna patted the girl's head vaguely. Falathor had been in Bree … Lomin …

"It's not true!" Indithel said, "It can't be true! Not Lomin!"

"I wouldn't be so sure," Ravenna said, "I know my son, Indithel, perhaps better than anyone else. He is not like other men: nobler, wiser, more dangerous and … more vulnerable to certain things. I do not know why he would obey the Witch-King, but if he has done so, he is the worst enemy Arnor could gain."

"But …" Indithel said, "What about Falathor? He … he went to Bree? To talk to Lomin? What if they … what if they …?"

But Ravenna could not answer that.

 

Trotter panted, trying to keep up with Anna's flying feet along the many halls of the castle. He almost lost sight of her several times, only barely glimpsing her hair streaming out behind her as she disappeared around a corner. She did not seem to have any idea where she was going, but that did not prevent her from running as if all her worst nightmares pursued her. Corridors and rooms flashed by, beautiful and mysterious, half-glimpsed through the corners of his eyes. He would gladly have stopped to admire his surroundings, or wandered around the castle for hours, but one thought burned in his mind and would not let him stop: if he lost Anna now, he would never find her again.

He rounded a corner into a long corridor. The floor was not carpeted, and he slid wildly on the smooth floor. The air smelled like food; he supposed fleetingly that they were near the kitchens. Far ahead of him, Anna tore open a door on the right hand side of the wall and dashed through. A strangled yelp echoed along the hall. Trotter grimaced. Hopefully she hadn't fallen down a stairway or anything …

A second later, he leaped through the door himself. His foot struck air and he tumbled forward, but luckily his fall was short; the ground was only a few inches below. Still, he landed unpleasantly and lay for a minute coughing and trying to catch his breath.

"Well, that was brilliant," Anna said next to him, "After you see me fall, you decide to jump blindly yourself. You could've been killed. What if this had been a bottomless pit?"

"Then we'd still be falling," Trotter said, sitting up and scowling at her.

Gradually he became aware that they were outside, sitting on some kind of gravel path. The foggy night air swirled around them. The area seemed to be a garden – hedges stretched away in front of them, bordered by grass and bare earth where flowers would grow in spring.

Anna leaped up and began pacing angrily back and forth.

"I don't believe it!" she said, "The King himself! The great, wise, oh-so-mighty King of Arnor! He couldn't even bear to look at me!" She stopped pacing suddenly and faced him. "Do I really look that bad?" she demanded.

Trotter looked her up at down. Her hair was uncombed and disorderly. The edges of her cloak were ragged and her once-white (presumably) shirt had turned a dull grey. Her trousers were too short and had loose strings hanging from the cuffs, and holes gaped in her shoes. The only inspiring thing about the whole picture was the Starflower necklace hanging from her neck.

"No," Trotter lied, "You look fine."

Anna deflated. "You're lying, aren't you?" she asked wearily.

"Er …" Trotter said, "I'd rather not answer that. Anyway, I think you look fine." He smiled encouragingly, but Anna only glared at him with folded arms. She resumed pacing, bristling like an offended cat in a cage.

"Always the same!" she muttered to herself, "Whenever they see me they act like that! Well, what's wrong with me anyhow? Are they any better? So what if I'm a homeless pauper … could they smuggle a sword past a load of guards into a gaol cell? Could they have it out with a barrow-wight?"

Tendrils of mist trailed around Anna's head as she ranted on about "them" and their many shortcomings. Wispy vines curled about her feet and a grey ring floated by her head.

Trotter blinked. A ring?

"… and just because they're tall, the oversized giants! Shorter is better anyway, and I …"

"Anna?" Trotter asked cautiously, interrupting the tirade, "Does fog usually come in rings?"

"What?" she snapped, glaring at him.

"That," he said, pointing as another ring floated by. It was followed seconds later by a perfectly shaped miniature ship. Trotter rubbed his eyes, but the ship remained, sailing innocently around Anna's head. She watched it, looking rather disturbed. A second later, it turned its prow and sailed away into the hedges.

Trotter got up and began to stalk the ship cautiously. It did not move too quickly; in fact, it almost seemed to be waiting for him to catch up. Deeper and deeper into the maze of hedges he followed it, each step crunching on the gravel path. Finally, he stopped.

"What is it?" Anna asked. She had followed him silently, forgetting her rampage for the moment.

"Look!" he said, pointing into the fog ahead.

He could just make out a stone bench standing alone in a small circle of greenery. The ship had flown airily until it reached the centre of the circle, then dissolved as if it had never been. This, however, no longer held Trotter's interest. There was a man sitting on the bench, all alone in the mist. He was dressed, apparently, all in grey, making it difficult to distinguish him from the fog, and there was a big pointy hat perched on his head. A long pipe stuck from his mouth, puffs of smoke emerging from it at intervals.

Trotter was far too curious about the mysterious smoker to leave the matter be, and besides, he reflected, anyone who was acquainted with the noble art of smoking couldn't be a foe. He walked boldly toward the old man – for he was undoubtedly old – and was about to greet him when the smoker removed the pipe-stem from his mouth and turned his head.

"Well!" he said, "How do you do! This is a pleasant surprise, I must say – a Hobbit!"

"Good evening!" Trotter replied, somewhat surprised, "Are you well acquainted with Hobbits, Master? I must say I was surprised myself to see you smoking – I had thought only my people were in the habit of practicing the art."

"I know something of the Halflings, yes," the old man said, "I have visited that delightful little colony of theirs – the Shire, they call it. Quite charming. That's where I picked up the pipe too. An excellent way to pass the time, if I don't say so myself." He blew another smoke-ship out of his mouth; this one had wings instead of sails.

"You've been to the Shire!" Trotter exclaimed, "I didn't think Men ever went there – they seem to think we Hobbits are extraordinarily dull. But who are you, Master?"

"My name is Gandalf," the old man said, "I am a Wizard by profession, though I dabble in other areas now and then, one might say."

"Gandalf!" Trotter and Anna said together.

"Gandalf is real?" Anna continued, "I thought he was just a story!"

"Not quite," Gandalf smiled, puffing on his pipe.

"Do you really make such wonderful fireworks? And magic?" Trotter asked, looking at the Wizard as if he expected Gandalf to begin juggling fire on the spot.

"I have little time for magic these days," Gandalf said, "Certain other matters occupy my time. Things are going rather badly for Arnor, if you must know, and I am doing what I can to help. But I am only an old Wizard, and my fireworks don't do much good against the Witch-King." His eyes twinkled mysteriously as he spoke, as if at some private joke. "The Black Captain has become bold. He has had his eye on Arnor for years – centuries, in fact – and now he thinks the time has come for him to take it. The King is in a bit of a tight spot – he needs all the help he can get."

"Then is the outlook truly so dark?" Trotter cried. He couldn't imagine Arnor without a king, or the land without Arnor.

"Oh, I don't know," Gandalf said, "It's hard to tell. The Witch-lord certainly seems to be growing stronger by the day, and Arnor, unfortunately, is short on allies. On the other hand, you never know what might crop up. Sometimes the smallest person can make a difference."

Trotter had the strange feeling that the old Wizard was speaking to him in particular. But what difference could he make? He could hardly lead an army against the Witch-King or advise the King on matters of war. And now that he had arrived in Fornost, he didn't quite know what to do next. Where should he go? Back to Bree? To the Shire? Or perhaps he could stay in Fornost – but what for? He realized for the first time that he had no purpose to guide him, and no place to bind him.

"So what comes next?" Anna asked. She had obviously been thinking upon the same lines as he. "Is this the end of Arnor? Not that I care, particularly … but the Witch-King isn't exactly my type of fellow either. I'd rather not live under his regime, if at all possible."

"Your question, like most of its kind, is unanswerable for the moment," Gandalf said, standing and poking at his hat to make it stand up more perkily, "But you may have your answer yet. Arvedui will call a council, I am sure – leaders are famous for their councils. It should be quite informative. But for now I suggest we go back inside. It's rather chilly, and my hat is getting damp." Sure enough, the hat had resisted all attempts to cheer it up and was drooping sadly on the Wizard's head.

Trotter walked at Gandalf's side back to the palace. The Wizard was humming a tune quite unconcernedly, as if he had not been discussing the fall of the kingdom and the triumph of evil mere moments ago. When they stepped inside the castle, a liveried servant greeted them. He was panting breathlessly and looked as if he had been searching for them for some time.

"The King … sends his apologies …" he said, "He was slightly ill … or had an evil vision … I don't remember which."

Trotter and Anna glanced at each other.

"A likely story," Anna muttered. Then she raised her voice, "No matter. Tell the King I accept his apology."

The servant nodded. "I will lead you to the rooms the King has graciously lent you," he said, recovered by now and speaking smoothly. He turned to Gandalf. "Master Wizard, if I saw you I was to tell you that the King wishes to speak to you in his antechamber."

"Well, it seems you have indeed seen me," Gandalf said, "So you might as well tell me now."

The servant blinked. "Er … The King wishes to speak to you in his antechamber."

"Really?" Gandalf said, looking faintly surprised, "How very interesting. I will go directly." And with a swirl of his grey cloak, he strode away down the corridor.

The servant sighed. "It's not easy being a servant sometimes," he said sadly. Then he bowed to Trotter and Anna. "If you will follow me?"

Naturally, they did.

 

Trotter found Beleg sitting upon the stone windowsill, apparently lost in thought. They were sharing a room, while Anna had her own chamber. She had not been able to make up her mind if she should be pleased at the courtesy or offended at being separated from her companions, but had settled on grudging acquiescence in the end. As soon as Trotter stepped inside, his gaze was drawn to the Elfit, curled up into a flexible ball by the window.

"I told the King everything," Beleg said as Trotter tiptoed past. The Hobbit started; almost he had thought Beleg was asleep.

"There's to be a council in a few weeks, and you and I are both to be there," the Elfit continued, undisturbed. The moonlight illuminated his face, shining fitfully through the thinning mist, and with the shadows shrouding his body he looked eerily like a disembodied, floating head. The corners of his mouth were curled slightly as if he were smiling at some inner thought. "They're going to discuss what's to be done. It could be interesting."

Trotter wondered if Beleg was being sarcastic; it was hard to tell sometimes, and his friend's moods were changeable, as he had begun to learn.

"Quite right!" he answered cheerfully, "At least matters will be taken care of! Thank you for doing my part, so to speak. But I had to go after Anna."

"Yes, yes, Anna," Beleg said, cocking his head and looking at Trotter, "Very upset, is she, the little lady?"

"Not at all," Trotter replied, "In fact, we were wondering what to do when this business is all finished. I thought the Shire might be a good place to start. You're welcome to come with us, of course; I'm sure Anna wouldn't mind either."

Beleg looked extremely surprised, and even more sceptical. He jumped down from the windowsill. Hobbit and Elfit stood side by side in the moonlight streaming through the window, their shadows stretching across the room like two ancient colossi carved by the empire-builders of old.

"Do you really believe that?" Beleg asked incredulously. Trotter nodded.

"I was rather convinced she hated me," the Elfit added lightly.

Trotter snorted. "Anna is a gentle soul," he said, "Almost too gentle for the world. She hates no one, and loves much. You just have to open your eyes and see it. As perhaps you will, if you come with us."

"I will come with you," Beleg said, "But I doubt we will be going to the Shire. Things are not as simple as they seem, as I found out some hours ago. Soon you may hear things that will change your mind and your plans; or perhaps some one else will change them for you. In any case, I renew my offer of my services and company on whatever road you choose."

Trotter shook his head firmly. "You may come with us on only one condition," he said, "Not because of your services or your honour, but out of friendship. I count you as a friend, Beleg, and would not give you any other title!"

Beleg seemed to have no answer to this. He stood still in the half-light, half-dark, eyes shining, tensed and frozen like some hunting animal. Then he reached out one arm and clasped Trotter's hand.

"Then let us be friends," he said with sudden laughter in his voice, "'Til the end of days!"

Their two giant shadows met and clasped hands like twin wanderers meeting on a lonely path and recognizing in each other a kindred spirit. Then the Hobbit and the Elfit swore a troth of ever-lasting friendship, unwitnessed and unsung, but no less binding and no less heartfelt than that of ancient Elf-Lords in the distant past of the world. There they forged an alliance of good-will and loyalty and, though small its partakers, yet it was as a glimmer of light in the falling darkness. For the Witch-king knows no love and no brotherhood, and all such things are a bane to him and a thorn in his foot.

"Beleg," Trotter asked as they stood there with palms still clasped, "Why did you choose to come with us?"

The Elfit merely smiled.

"Some day I will tell you," he said.

Long leagues to the south, a lone rider galloped on the East Road. The stars burned brightly overhead, but the rider's face was concealed in his cloak. He paid no attention to the road, trusting his horse to find a smooth path. His mind was elsewhere.

Lomin had tried to make for Tharbad at first. They wouldn't expect that, and perhaps there he could find out the truth about what Falathor had told him. There was no point in staying in Bree anymore; it did not interest him. Besides, he was in danger there, and it wasn't worth risking his life simply to cater to the wishes of the Witch-King. Tharbad … the town lay a good hundred leagues from Bree, on the banks of the Greyflood. Carn Dûm's power was weaker there. He had hoped they would not find him, or perhaps forget about him altogether. But that hope had been disappointed.

Barely two leagues from Bree, the Black Rider had found him. Lomin still shuddered at the memory …

_… "You cannot hide from the Dark Lord," the Nazgul said. Out here in the dusky wilderness it was even more terrifying, drawing strength from the shadowed lands where Men had no power. "You cannot flee."_

_"I am not hiding!" Lomin said angrily. He could hardly control his terrified horse, panicked by the presence of the black creature, dancing on the twilight ground. "I do not fear Him!"_

_"You have not fulfilled the bargain," the Rider said, "Bree is not in our power. We do not have the necklace. You have failed."_

_"The bargain is void!" Lomin said, "I demand no payment. I renounce my part in your games. We part ways here, demon!"_

_"You cannot renounce the bargain," said the Rider, "Or have you forgotten?"_

_It raised its metal fist, and the Ring shone silver-black on its finger. Lomin found his gaze drawn irresistibly to that flaming circle. He closed his eyes, but the Ring remained in his mind, a wheel of dark fire. He felt it pulling at him, pulling at his … soul. He had sold his soul to the Dark Lord. And still he desired the Ring._

_"You have broken the agreement and you will pay for it now," the Black Rider said, "But the Witch-King is not unjust. Serve him well, and you will have a reward yet, human, a reward greater than your wildest dreams and darker than your deepest nightmares. Is it not what you wish?"_

_"What do you know of what I wish?" Lomin said bitterly, staring at the ground._

_"The Black Lord knows. He will give you the child."_

_Lomin's head jerked up. "The child?" he blurted out, "How did you …" He didn't bother to finish the question. What didn't the Witch-King know?_

_"We know," the Nazgul said, "You will have the child, if you serve Him. I will give you your orders; you will report to me. Glory awaits you, Shadowed Star. Do as the Dark Lord orders. Follow me."_

_He did not want to. But he did anyway._

Lomin had followed the Nazgul here, back to the East. Now he rode like the wind to complete his first assignment, by the order of the Witch-King.

He slowed the horse to a trot. He was close, and he did not want to miss the spot. There would be a fire; even though it would make the party more easily visible, they would deem it worth the risk to have a weapon that the Enemy feared at hand. The trees loomed on either side, and he watched carefully for a gap in the leafy row.

Sure enough, there it was. A few yards ahead a faint orange light glimmered through the trees – a campfire. He directed his horse easily towards the spot. There was no need to hesitate; everything had been planned out.

The five Men leaped to their feet with weapons in hand as he appeared in the circle of firelight. They did not lower their bows and swords when they recognized him as one of their own kind. One could not be too mistrustful in these lands.

Lomin pulled back his hood and held out his empty hands. He looked around quickly at the small hollow: it was surrounded by bushes and the light of the fire was mostly concealed by the rising ground. Only onto the Road did a few rays spill. Whether the five travellers were aware of this or not, he did not know and did not particularly care. They were all Dúnedain, he could tell, middle-aged, seasoned men.

"Who are you and what do you want here?" one of them asked, glancing Lomin over with shrewd eyes.

"My name is Vanwafea," Lomin said with an inner twinge of grim amusement*, "I am carrying a message from Rivendell. I was told that I might meet a company of Westmen on the Road if I rode quickly enough. Five men, from Fornost on the King's orders. Am I right in assuming I have found them?"

"You are," the man said, lowering his bow slightly, "I am Laurendur, the leader of this company. You are from Rivendell? Have you been looking for us? If so, why?

"Yes, I sought your party, and almost I thought I would come too late. I am to warn you of an ambush. There is a band of Orcs and a Black Rider lying in wait further upon this Road."

Laurendur's eyes widened. "A Black Rider?" was his not unexpected question. Lomin nodded, and saw with satisfaction that the man lowered his bow completely now and glanced at his companions. This was far too easy; he had only to keep them talking, and all would fall into place. Within a few minutes the camp would be surrounded, and these men were far too occupied with him for the moment to pay close attention to the shadowy trees and bushes outside the firelight.

"Yes," Lomin nodded, "The Rider leads a large force. You will not be able to fight them."

"Then the Witch-lord has learned of our errand," one of the other men said, "Laurendur, his minions may be on our trail at this very minute. We must hide our camp."

"A wise suggestion," Lomin agreed readily, "I must say I'm not in a hurry to have a run-in with a horde of Orcs myself. Put out the fire first, if you want to remain hidden!"

Laurendur nodded and gestured to the man who had spoken. The Dúnedan quickly sheathed his sword and hurried to the fire. With quick, efficient movements, he threw a large heap of earth upon the coals and began stamping on it. Too quickly, as it turned out. The light snuffed out like a candle, and Lomin whistled ear-splittingly. For a moment he was blinded by the suddenly dark night; furthermore, so were the five messengers. The Dunlendings waiting in the bushes around the camp, however, were not, having had their eyes closed against the light until Lomin's signal.

A volley of arrows hissed through the air, and without so much as a cry, every one of the King's messengers fell dead to the ground.

Lomin's eyes adjusted quickly, and he dismounted, calling to his men. Thirty swarthy warriors of the Dunlendish race appeared out of the bushes silently.

"Search the camp!" Lomin said, "Take what you wish for your own. Then burn the rest." He did not want any part in the looting of the corpses himself. It was below his dignity even now, when he was no longer a respect soldier, or a well-paid traitor.

"What about the bodies?" a heavily bearded soldier asked.

Lomin shrugged. "Cut off their heads," he said, "And tie them to a horse. Let it bring our own message back to the sender."

The Dunlending bowed. "As you say, captain," he said.

Lomin grimaced. They called him captain – but he had become a pawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "vanwafea" - lost soul


	7. The Last Council

Beleg tipped his wooden chair back insolently. For a moment Trotter thought the Elfit was going to put his feet on the table, but apparently even his unconventional friend didn't quite have the gall for that level of disrespect. Trotter himself sat as properly as he could, looking at the faces seated around the table with deep interest. No one was paying much attention to him, and a quietly expectant murmur filled the rom.

Trotter and Beleg sat around a gleaming wooden table in the highest room of the Tower of Seeing. They had put off their travelling clothes and donned plain but clean garments prepared for them by the palace servants. Neither carried a weapon, for it was forbidden for any but the guards and those of the King's blood to bear arms within the castle. Anna, although Trotter had asked her come, had declined to accompany them and disappeared from her room before he could attempt to convince her again, to his chagrin. The room he and the Elfit were in now was empty of furniture but for the table and the myriad maps hanging on the walls, but it did not seem bare. Trotter felt it was beautiful in its simplicity, the nicest place he had seen as yet in Menhenneth.

It had been two weeks since they arrived in Fornost, and he found that he recognized many of the personages now present at the Last Council, as King Arvedui had pessimistically termed it. Twenty or so people were taking part, representing all the races of Middle Earth. The King himself, stern and grey-haired, sat at the eastern end of the table, facing the door. Thorondil and Galion were also present, as were several other Elves. All were from Lindon; apparently no Rivendell Elves had arrived, although Trotter had heard rumours that the King had sent messengers to Elrond weeks ago.

The King's sons sat to Arvedui's right. The eldest was Aranarth; his two brothers were called Arcamion and Aradel. Trotter wondered idly how the Dúnedain picked names for their men-children. Obviously they did not spend much time poring over books of children's names, as was common among Hobbits. Besides the princes, several other nobles and high-ranking soldiers were present, from both Fornost and Annuminas, the city in the Twilight Hills. Gandalf was also there, without his pipe this time.

"I don't believe he smokes …" Beleg said, noticing Trotter's glance, "You'd think a Wizard would know better."

"Why? What's wrong with smoking?" Trotter asked, mildly offended. He was rather fond of pipeweed himself, when it came down to it.

"Nothing, except that it generates frightening hallucinations."

Trotter stared at the Elfit. "You've smoked troll-leaf?" he asked, startled.

"Is that what it's called?" Beleg raised his eyebrows, "I'm surprised you Hobbits can stand such stuff. It was awful - after I tried it I thought I was a giant spider for a full twelve hours and kept trying to spin a web with my bowstring."

"Beleg," Trotter said, "We don't normally smoke troll-leaf. It got its name because one pipe-full can knock down a troll. It's very dangerous and unhealthy – and in fact, it's illegal in the Shire. Where and how did you get your hands on some of it?"

"Oh … you know," Beleg said evasively, "I wander around, and sometimes things just … come up. Oh, and if you tell anyone about the spider thing I'll have to kill you."

"Right," Trotter said, turning back to the assembled congregation. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the rest of that story.

There were two empty chairs around the table, he noticed. Who else could be coming? The delegation from Annuminas had already arrived, and all of Arvedui's chief counsellors were present. Who were they waiting for?

Trotter's question was soon answered, for at that moment the door on the west side of the room opened, and the two missing members of the council stepped inside. He leaped up, knocking over his chair, shocked enough that he cried out.

"Falathor!" he called, for it was indeed the tall, grave young man whom he had befriended, "You're alive! You've come! But . . . your eye!"

Falathor wore a black patch over his left eye. It made him look rather roguish, and far less respectable than Trotter reminded, but it did not look altogether inappropriate. At the Man's side was Navri the Dwarf, red beard bristling as ever.

"Hail, Trotter!" Falathor said with a genuine smile, walking over and clapping the Hobbit on the shoulder, "Well met! I am overjoyed to see you again, my friend! And don't worry about me; I've lost an eye, but they've started to call me Falathor the Far-Sighted despite that. You were right after all, in the end – but that's a story everyone will get to hear in a moment. I believe that now everything will come out, and many things will become clear to us. But quiet now! The King speaks!" And he and Navri quickly took their places in the two empty chairs as Arvedui rose from his place.

"I have summoned you here," said the King, "For one purpose: to decide the future of Arnor, which hangs now by a thinning thread over an deep abyss. This kingdom is in more danger than it has ever been, and I fear greatly that if we do not act immediately all will be lost. We have no time, but we cannot afford to make a mistake. Therefore we must decide today our course of action. Many of you do not know the full state of affairs, and so I will begin by telling you all I know of that which is relevant to our situation.

"As you are all aware, the Witch-King's realm has pushed to within our very borders. Long years past, in the time of my forefather Arveleg I, he attacked Arnor and nearly destroyed it. Amon Sûl was broken, but Arnor remained, and his strength faded once more. Then for a long time there was a balance of power when neither Arnor nor the Witch-King grew. But now the scales are tipping again, and not in our favor. The Witch-King has found new allies in the wild tribes of men in the North, and some among the men of Dunland further south. Orcs have flocked to him out of the mountains. With this power he has stretched his hand all the way to the Weather Hills, which are now held precariously by the Dúnedain. They cannot hold out indefinitely, nor will Arnor if we do not find help soon.

"I have gazed into the palantír, the Seeing Stone of Fornost, and it is dark and will not obey my will. I have sent messengers to Rivendell and Gondor, but they were lost; but a few days ago one of their horses came back, with the bloody heads of all five messengers tied to its saddle. Obviously the Witch-King guessed our purpose and the party was ambushed. Furthermore, word of a fell chieftain who roams the eastern lands has come to my ears. He appeared some weeks ago, and works the Witch-King's bidding without fail. The people who have coming fleeing from those lands call him the Nine-fingered. But his true name is Lominelen, and he is of the Dúnedain, our own people, as will be told in a moment.

"The Elves of Lindon have come to our aid, and Thorondil has promised me that they will send what help they can, but it is not enough to defend Arnor. We must have allies, but our list of friends has grown short. We cannot send a message, and even within this kingdom there are those who would not help us. A messenger has come from Bree to tell of dark deeds in that simple town," here he gestured at Trotter, "Tell your tale as you know it, Master Hobbit, that it may be known to all present."

Trotter stood up hastily and began to tell the story from the day of the battle in Bree until his arrival in Fornost. He was careful to include every detail; all eyes were riveted on him, and he could see that his tale was news to most of the listeners. He was interrupted only once, by Aranarth.

"So it was you who wounded the Nine-fingered Captain?" the King's son asked, "That was a brave deed. The Dúnedain are not light foes."

"Perhaps it was brave," Trotter answered, "But I take no pleasure from it. The Man was my friend." Aranarth did not reply, and so he continued his story.

When he had finished and sat down once more, a disturbed murmur filled the room. It was cut off by Falathor, who stood up and cleared his throat.

"All that the Halfling says is true," he said, "But the situation has changed now. Bree is no longer under the dominion of a traitor; Lominelen has fled the town."

There were more murmurs of interest at this, and Trotter also cocked his head in surprise, wondering what Falathor had done after he had returned to Bree. It was not long before he found out.

"I returned to Bree after I became convinced that Trotter spoke the truth," Falathor said, "For I was determined to confront my brother no matter the cost. In the end I paid for my presumption rather dearly," he said wryly, "But I accomplished my goal – Lomin has left Bree. Hard words passed between us, and we fought. He bested me, but he could not kill me. Perhaps he is not as far gone to the shadow as it seemed at first, for he left me alive and fled that very day. I would have gone after him, but my wound was bad, and I could not ride until some days ago, when I immediately made my way to Fornost. I was unsure if Trotter had arrived safely, and wished to inform the King of the change in the state of affairs.

"I do not know what thoughts are in Lomin's mind. I suspect that his leaving of Bree did not comply with the wishes of the Witch-lord, and that he in fact meant to escape from the power of Carn Dûm rather than join it. Do not take this to mean, however, that he has repented and is loyal to Arnor once more; it is much more likely that he considers himself an outcast or a free agent, and is merely waiting for a chance to leave the North behind altogether. Before he does so, however, he will go to Tharbad, no matter the danger involved in the venture."

"Tharbad? Why?" Arvedui asked, "What does he seek there?"

"A … child," Falathor said. He looked slightly embarrassed. "Allow me to explain. I learned from my mother some time ago that Lomin had once had a lover, a young woman from Tharbad. It was as much as twenty-five years ago, but my brother never forgot the affair; apparently the lady left him against his will. He searched for but never found her. My mother, however, was in contact with the woman, though she had promised never to reveal her whereabouts. But there was something else she never revealed – the lady had a child, a child fathered by my brother. A short time later, the lady left her place of concealment and disappeared. News came to my mother of the poor woman's death, but she lost all trace of the child.

"A year or so ago, however, she heard strange news from Tharbad, the hometown of my brother's lover. She revealed to me the affair of the child, and bade me discover what I could about it. I had other business, but I did what I could, and I traced the child to Tharbad. There I lost the trail – Lomin's child had been banished from the town for murder, and no one knew where it had gone. I know precious little else. I cannot even say whether my brother's offspring is man or woman, or its exact age.

"What I knew, however, I told Lomin when we spoke. Perhaps it was not the wisest move," Falathor admitted, "But it seemed necessary at the time. The news struck him hard, and I believe he will seek to go to Tharbad and find the child if he can."

"This is news indeed," Arvedui said, shaking his head, "The affairs of my own court are shaking the kingdom. But that is a small matter now, besides the danger to Arnor."

"Perhaps not so small after all," said Arcamion suddenly. Arvedui's middle son leaned his elbow against the table, brushing his coal-black hair out of his eyes. He was shorter than most Dúnedain, and dark; his eyes were black as well. "Lominelen has become a serious danger to Arnor. If we could capture him, we would strike a heavy blow against the Witch-King. We could check his other captains and weaken his hold on the eastern lands."

"And how do you propose to capture my brother?" Falathor asked, "He is quite capable of evading most any ambush or assassin you send against him."

"Not this assassin," Arcamion countered, "This one strikes straight to the heart. If we find the child, he will come to us without any effort on our part."

Falathor was silent for a moment. "You are proposing that we use this child as bait?" he asked, "Supposing we find the unfortunate, what if he or she refuses to cooperate?"

Arcamion shrugged. "It hardly matters," he said, "We are talking about the security of Arnor here. And I am not proposing that we torture the youth or anything, merely that we keep it under our eye until Lomin comes for it. Then we will deal with him as the circumstances dictate."

"It is not honourable to use a man's children against him," Navri said suddenly, speaking for the first time, "Even if he is a traitor. It's sneaky and underhanded. Defeat Lomin in battle if you can - but if you cannot, do not turn to the methods of the Witch-King to achieve your ends.

"This is hardly the time to be picky," Arcamion snapped, understandably offended, "And restrain your wagging tongue! Sneaky and underhanded … if it weren't for Arnor, your people would have been slaughtered long ago. We keep the might of the Witch-King off you while you shelter safely in the Blue Mountains behind our back!"

"Are you calling the Dwarves cowards?" Navri said heatedly, "Give me an axe and repeat that!"

"Enough!" Arvedui said tiredly, "We don't have time for this. Lomin must be curbed, and I find my son's idea good. We must find the child, and let it be known that we are holding it here in Fornost."

"If you wish it, Majesty," Falathor said, "I will take up the search. I have already spent some time on the trail, and perhaps that will give me an advantage."

"Yes, very good," Arvedui said, looking relieved, "So that matter is settled at least. Now we must return to the main problem: the defence of Arnor. I call upon my Captain of the North Guard to explain the situation."

A wiry Man at the far side of the table stood up and bowed. "Your Majesty is gracious," he said, "The problem is the following: we are outnumbered, undersupplied, and cut off from help."

"Sounds wonderful …" Beleg muttered at Trotter's side. Trotter kicked the Elfit under the table; this was hardly the time for sarcastic comments.

"The Witch-king's forces stand at the feet of the Weather Hills. His last attack was launched three weeks ago, simultaneously with the attack on Bree. Apparently he planned to install his own instruments in the town, effectively cutting Arnor in half by doing so. Bree lies on the crossing of the North-South and East-West Roads, and from there traffic can be regulated between Fornost, Tharbad, the Shire, and Rivendell. We guess that, had Lomin remained in control of the town, all communications would gradually have been cut off. A messenger was sent, also three weeks ago, to request troops from Bree; he never returned. No doubt this was also part of the plan, - to dry up the supply of manpower at the King's disposal. At the same time the King would remain oblivious to the situation in Bree - since the Witch-King did not rule there outright – and not think to send anyone to investigate.

"This part of the plan, at least, failed, but that failure has hardly bettered our situation. The Weather Hills still hold, but only because the Black Captain has not attacked again. There have been skirmishes, but no major attempts to break through the line. We suspect that the Witch-King is gathering his forces and biding his time for a sudden attack – when, we do not know, but probably sometime in winter, when the North is particularly strong. Currently, his power reaches all the way to the South Downs. The area around the East-West Road, between Bree and Rivendell, is thought to be under the control of the Nine-fingered Captain. No messengers can pass that way, as has been proven, and so we are cut off from both Rivendell and Gondor.

"Once the Witch-King breaks through the Weather Hills, he will sweep without trouble to this city. His forces are too numerous for us to stand a chance. Once he has secured Fornost, the rest of the kingdom will fall without a doubt."

"Then what is to be done?" asked one of the nobles from Annuminas, "We cannot conjure armies out of thin air! Is Arnor lost already?"

"Hardly," said Gandalf. Everyone looked at the Wizard expectantly, obviously hoping for a very wise revelation that would solve all of their problems. "And you do not need magic to build armies," he continued, "Only a bit of logical thought. Yes, the Dúnedain are few, but they are not the only inhabitants of Eriador, in case you had forgotten. In this very room are representatives from your neighbouring lands. I suggest you direct your question at them."

"Gandalf speaks wisely," Thorondil said, "I have already discussed this with the King; Lindon stands ready to aid Arnor in every way. We are not a war-like people and most of our craft is spent in ship-building and song-making. But Círdan the Shipwright is mighty, and it is from him that I have come. I bring word from him of the loyalty of the Elves to their younger kin. You can count on our aid."

"And on that of the Dwarves!" Navri said, not to be outdone by an Elf under any circumstances, "You say we hide in our caves," he said, glaring at Arcamion, "But soon enough you will be glad of our underground labours. We have forged many weapons over the years: sharp swords, long spears, strong shields. My people are sturdy warriors, and we will march against the Witch-King gladly."

"And what of the Hobbits?" Arvedui asked, turning to Trotter, "Can the Little People promise aid as well?"

Several people chuckled. Hobbits were not known for their prowess in war, and the other races considered the Halflings to be chubby, cheery, and rather foolish on the whole. Although they were not wrong, they were not exactly right either; there is more to Hobbits than one sees at first glance, and under stress their hidden talents often spring up just in time.

Trotter fidgeted. How did he know if Hobbits would fight? He was only thirty-three, not the Thain of the Marches or anything! And he was not a Shire-Hobbit either; his brethren in the Shire would probably slam their doors in his face if he asked them to fight a battle against the Witch-King.

"I don't really know," he said finally, "But I can go and speak to them if Your Majesty wishes. I am sure they will be willing to send food and supplies to Fornost, for the Shire is a rich land and we are a generous people, when approached correctly. Perhaps the Thain will send some archers as well – Hobbits are rather good with bows, in case you didn't know."

"You see then," Thorondil said, "That Arnor is not alone after all. There is more strength here than you think. Still, it may not be enough to defend the North. Therefore this I counsel to you: make fast your strongholds now and prepare a strike. The Weather Hills cannot hold, and it is useless to attempt to defend Arnor against the Witch-King indefinitely. You must strike back now and crush him before he can become more powerful! With our help, you can gather a force strong enough to break Carn Dûm forever. Use what allies you have and Arnor may yet be saved!"

There was much whispering at this speech, and Trotter saw that approval lighted many of the faces present. They were fair and hopeful words, and he felt his own spirit lifting with them. But yet his heart remained troubled; for he looked at Gandalf, and the old Wizard seemed sorrowful and unmoved by Thorondil's words.

"I do not doubt that your offers are valiant," Gandalf said when the whispering had died down somewhat, "But I fear that it will not be enough; we must do more or perish. You do not know the power of the Witch-King. Yet your words are wise, and I bid you hold to them and bring aid from your peoples." He looked at the King, "Build up your armies, Arvedui, and your kingdom may be saved yet. But do not put all your faith in them, for this strength is but a fraction of what rallies beneath the Witch-King's banners. Therefore this also I counsel: send messengers once more, by the dark and stealthy ways through wood and over plain, to Gondor at least if not Rivendell as well. For if King Eärnil comes in time and adds his strength to yours, the dark forces will be routed and Carn Dûm razed to the last stone."

"How can messengers reach Gondor in time?" Arvedui asked impatiently, "And who has the cunning and strength for such a journey? I sent trusty men and they failed. The East-West road can no longer be traversed. That leaves only one way: across Minhiriath and Enedwaith. Those lands are uncharted and filled with wild folk and strange creatures. Who can I send now who even stands a chance? A contingent of Elves, perhaps, or of the Dúnedain, but I cannot spare them on so uncertain a mission. Every man is needed here, for you say yourself, Gandalf, that our chances are slim. Furthermore, even if I sent a large force, they would be in great danger. Once the Witch-King became aware of their presence, he would send an ambush immediately. A messenger would have to travel both swiftly and completely undetected, and no force of Men or Elves can accomplish that. "

The Wizard did not answer to this, but he seemed unperturbed by Arvedui's questions. In fact, Trotter could have sworn he was almost smiling, as if he knew something the King did not. He wondered what thoughts lived in Gandalf's head, what plans were formed there and what knowledge buried deep inside. Suddenly, he realized that the Wizard was looking at him, his bushy eyebrows stiff and lowered slightly over his eyes.

A very strange feeling came over him as he looked around at the troubled faces ringing the table. There was the King, and his noble sons, and Thorondil and Galion, the great Elves; Gandalf the Wizard, Navri the stout-hearted Dwarf, and dear old Falathor. And all of them were as helpless as he himself. Or … was he really helpless? What had the King said – "swiftly and completely undetected"? Who attracted less notice than a Hobbit? Suddenly it was as if there was a clear path before him, and all he had to do was take the first step. Was it fate calling, or merely the influence of too much grand talk? His Hobbit-sense assured him that it was the latter and that he was thinking like a fool. He was not a hero … but this was not a hero's errand. It was a mission of stealth and secrecy, like those his father had always taken part in. His father, from whom he had learned all he knew. And what use was the knowledge if he did not use it, the memory if he did not live up to it?

Trotter stood up firmly. "I will go to Gondor," he said, "But whatever paths I must take, and I will bring help before the new year if I have to run my feet to the ankles to do it!"

Every eye in the room was fixed on him and for a moment no one spoke. Then Thorondil laughed, but there was no mockery in his mirth.

"Look ye, O Men and Elves and Dwarves mighty beneath the sun!" said the Elf, "Here stands a Hobbit and shoulders a task that daunts even the great! Let no one say that the Halflings are a soft folk living hidden in their small land! For this little one will bear the hope of us all!"

"Indeed, I suspected this might be the end result of the question," Gandalf said with a smile beneath his bushy grey beard, "Our hope will be in good hands, too, or I'm a Dwarf!"

"That you certainly are not," snorted Navri, "My good Wizard! But I do not doubt that you speak the truth in this matter. Honour to the Halflings and Trotter of Bree above all!" And he stood up and bowed, taking off his cap in the manner of his people.

"Yes," said Arvedui, "It deserves much honour indeed, if you can fulfil this task. I thank you for your valiance in taking up this burden, for my hope and my kingdom may indeed rest upon your small shoulders. And so I name you Calacolindo, the Bearer of Light in times of darkness. But you must have companions - you cannot go alone on such a journey!"

"Of course he's not going alone!" Beleg said, springing indignantly from his chair, "He wouldn't even think of it! What are friends for after all? Let none say that Beleg of Lindon deserted his troth-brother in his hour of need! He will have at least one companion, and not such a useless one, if I don't say so myself." He crossed his arms and looked defiantly at the gathered council.

"Nor do I believe that Anna Applethorn will allow you to leave without her," Falathor said, "Or that you would do well in leaving her. Perhaps my sight is not as true as that of Men of old, yet my heart tells me that you three are inseparable. Your fates are intertwined as that of the Great Jewels. But I cannot guess what that fate will be, and I fear for you, Trotter, though you are bold and not unwise." Falathor looked at him with troubled brow and a strange pain in his eyes, but he spoke no more, only shaking his head.

"Then the Messengers will be three," Gandalf said, "And small feet may run as fleetly as great ones. Go swiftly, and by the hidden paths that you may find in the wild. Arnor will stand by its alliance of the peoples – but not forever."

So at that Last Council was it decided that Trotter Calacolindo, Beleg the Elfit, and Anna Applethorn were to be the Three Messengers sent in secrecy as the last hope of Arnor for aid from its sister kingdom in the south. Thus was set their path, by fate or by chance or by both those powers who are as the two faces of one coin, through uncertain paths and shadowed wilds across the long miles to Gondor.


	8. Gone Awry

Late in the night of that same day, two lone figures remained in the council room of Minas Hen, seated together at the eastern end of the great table. The bearing and face of one revealed him as Arvedui, while the bright eyes and grace of the other named him Thorondil. But they were not the same now as when hopeful councils had flowed during the sunlight; they seemed diminished without the presence and strength of their comrades. For they had come here for a council of their own, and dark words passed between them, and even their wise hearts were doubtful.

A single lamp stood on the table, spilling light in haphazard patterns about the room. The white walls glinted dully under its yellow rays, but the maps covering them were but a vague dimness, and no stars could be seen through the windows. Empty chairs stood scattered about the table, their long shadows binding the room in a criss-crossing maze of dark and light that no eye could follow. The light reached timidly across the dark wood of the table towards the two seated, brooding figures, illuminating their faces from beneath. But in front of Arvedui was a shadow that the little lamp could not brighten, heavy and mysterious in a cloak of night.

Silence reigned for the moment, as Man and Elf wandered deeply in their own thoughts, each taking comfort in the other's presence, but neither daring yet to speak their mind. Thorondil's eyes shone steadily with the unquenchable fire of spirit, flaming and dancing in him now though he did not move and did not betray his unrest by any other sign. But Arvedui's eyes were downcast, and darkness was on his face, and he sat still as a statue. So it was the Elf who spoke first.

"I do not wish to do this," he said, soft voice filling the silent room like the distant drip of water in a cave, "It can lead to no good, no matter what you think. Nor am I certain there would be any result at all. Why should I succeed where you yourself failed?"

Arvedui raised his gaze from his hands, resting white and still on the table next to that invisible darkness that the light did not touch. He looked at Thorondil, on whose face the beauty and wisdom of the Eldar shone unceasingly, and who was untouched by age and unfazed by sorrow.

"Friend," he said in barely more than a whisper, so that his voice did not echo in the empty space around, "I have looked into the Seeing Stone and it shows me only darkness. But not empty darkness. He is there, and ever he grows, filling my sight and my mind. I cannot see his thoughts, but he suspects mine. He was a Man once, I think, and he knows our kind; he can twist and shroud the truth for my eyes until I cannot tell what is the lie and what the reality. But you are an Elf, and great among your people, and my friend of many years. So I bid you look, and tell me what is revealed to you from the depths."

"And you do not know what you ask," Thorondil replied, "Ah, Arvedui! Do you remember when you came to the Western Woods as a young man and saw the Sea for the first time? Do you remember what you asked me, there on the sands with the waves lapping at our feet?"

Arvedui stared into the lamp, its madly dancing flames mirrored in his eyes. Then he said:

"Why do you stay upon this shadowed earth? Why do you not go to the home of the Gods beyond the roaring seas, away from the curses and troubles of Men? And if you wish to stay, why do you not destroy the Dark One?"

"Yes," Thorondil said, "So you wondered, and though I spoke then of the fate and the sorrow of the Elven people, yet my words fell to nought. Thus I answered, and now I answer once more: We are bound to this Middle Earth by blood and doom, and though my people were indeed the First and dear to the Valar, given the gift of passage to that land at the end of days, yet we are not Gods. Even in the days of the glory of the Elves we could not end the reign of the dark powers. Now our strength and wisdom fails and our people diminish, and the day of Man comes. I am an Elf, but I cannot stand against the Witch-King's will, though he be of mortal origin. I fear him, Arvedui; the power of his dark master is in him and he is strong. If I look into the palantír and meet him there, he will overpower me. I fear that darkness! I do not wish to wander lost under his spell, a slave to his merciless will!"

"Such would not be your fate!" Arvedui replied, "For never would I leave a friend to helpless torment! But he will not see you. He cannot come close even to my mind, and you are an Elf, more powerful and more distant from him than I. Perhaps your keen sight can pierce the shadows and give us some hope. It is not easy to ask this of you, Thorondil! You know I love you as a brother, nor do the Dúnedain willingly share the secrets of the palantíri. And yet I ask it, in the name of our friendship."

Still Thorondil hesitated. The lightless shadow lay before them on the table like a hole in reality, the palantír that only its own fire brightens. Then finally he sighed.

"It is against my better council," he said, "But I will do this thing for you."

He leaned over the Seeing Stone, placing both hands upon it, one on either side, and looked into its hidden depths. A red light began to glow there as if from very far away, and it was mirrored in the Elf's eyes. His gaze became intent and he stiffened, frozen, fair face pale but fringed as if with fire as the light of lamp and stone fell on him, mingling like two flames meeting.. Then suddenly his lips parted, and he cried out once in anguish or sorrow, wordlessly. Arvedui leaped to his feet, grabbing his friend's shoulders.

"Thorondil!" he called, "Come back! Do not look any more!"

But the Elf did not move, only remained sitting, stiff and trembling with both hands pale upon the palantír, gaze and mind far off in a tangled dark maze beyond the reach of human voice.

"O foolish weakness!" Arvedui wept, "What have I done? Thorondil! I have sent you into doom! Return to me, my friend!" He shook the Elf's shoulders and tried to pry his stiffened hands from the dark stone.

Suddenly, Thorondil blinked once. His palms remained rigid on the palantír, but he turned slowly to look up at Arvedui, who stood with his hands still on his friend's shoulders, hardly daring to breathe. Their eyes met, and Arvedui gasped, but before he could speak or act, Thorondil, with a movement faster than mortal eye could follow, whipped around his arm and, with the stone in his hand, struck the king a blow to the head so that he fell without a sound to the floor.

Falathor did not step out of the shadow of the wall. He did not want to be seen just yet, so long as he had not been noticed.

The courtyard was chilly, though the red-haired Man showed no sign of being bothered by the cold. Rose bushes ringed the still-green grass, and the pool in the centre reflected the night sky perfectly. Not only stars were mirrored in the dark water; a beautiful maiden wavered there. She was tall and slender, white-skinned, black-haired, blue-eyed. Her robe, too, was of pale blue, falling in silken folds to her silver-shoed feet. Her face was turned away from Falathor, but he did not have to see it; he knew every curve of delicate bone and inch of soft skin by heart.

She gazed at herself in the still water, turning this way and that, watching her reflection. Then she smiled and twirled once in a circle; and as she did so, her gaze fell on Falathor. She gasped in surprise and took a step backwards.

"Good evening, Indithel," Falathor said from the shadows, "It has been a long time, hasn't it?."

"Falathor!" Indithel said, a smile of delight lighting up her face, "How wonderful to see you!"

"I could say the same," said Falathor. Indithel blushed. He wondered why. Everyone who saw Indithel exclaimed about how glad they were to see her and how beautiful she was - she should be used to it by now.

"Have you come from the Council?" she asked and when he nodded, continued excitedly, "What did they say? What will Father do? And what about Lomin? Oh, we were so worried about you two …"

"What?" Falathor asked, shocked, "You know about Lomin? How did you find out?"

Indithel looked crestfallen. "Oh, no," she said, "I was supposed to keep it a secret. How silly of me. Please, don't tell anyone! They'll be so angry. I'm not supposed to know things. It's rather unfair, if you ask me – why shouldn't I know as well? And why are you hiding over there in the dark? Come over so we can speak properly!"

Falathor stepped out of the shadows, and Indithel's eyes flew open in shock.

"Gracious!" she exclaimed, covering her mouth with a delicate hand, "Your eye!" She pranced gracefully over to him and took his head in her hands, turning it this way and that.

"Was it…?" she asked tentatively, "Did he…?"

"It was, and he did," Falathor answered, "This is my dear brother's work – only a small part of it, since you seem to know about the rest anyway. How did you find out?"

"I have my ways," Indithel said with a mysterious smile, "That patch does suit you rather well. You look quite the rebel now. I like it."

Falathor would have rolled his eyes, but since he no longer possessed them in the plural, he had to settle for rolling his eye. The King's daughter was so empty-headed at times that he wondered why he was so madly in love with her. It was really intolerable, but he couldn't help it.

But no, he decided immediately, she wasn't really empty-headed. Indithel was quite clever when it came down to it. In fact, he often had the feeling that she was merely playing a game of some sort, but with whom and for what reason remained mysteries to him. Perhaps she really was just a pampered princess who had never had to think for herself … but Falathor had a feeling that there was something beneath the surface. Sometimes feelings like that bothered him, and they were usually right.

He had come here because something else had been bothering him. He had not wanted to believe what Lomin had said – that Indithel loved him. The very thought made him rage inside, though an observer would not have seen anything of his feelings expressed on his face. But not knowing the truth was even worse. He had to ask, no matter how melodramatic the following scene was likely to be, what with Indithel's characteristic overreactions. Falathor hated melodrama. So he tried to phrase his question as mildly as possible.

"Speaking of my brother," he said, "I have a tiny question to ask."

"Ask away!" Indithel said, smiling sweetly, "I live to please!"

"Lomin mentioned that the two of you had met when he was last here. He made some … interesting comments about your behaviour towards him. I was rather surprised by what he said, and thought I would ask your opinion on whether there is any truth in the matter."

"Oh?" said Indithel innocently, "What did he say? I'm really quite curious!"

"Basically something along the lines of … that you insisted he visit your bed," Falathor said in a rush.

Outrage flooded Indithel's face. He winced. So much for mildness …

"And no doubt you believed him?" the princess snapped, "Just like that, eh? Well, thank you very much for your confidence! I have never been so insulted! I wouldn't have believed it of you, Falathor! Why, I should, I should …"

"Please, spare me the tantrum," Falathor said, "All I want to know is if it's true. Yes or no. Well?"

"Why should I answer you?" Indithel smirked prettily, "I find it much more amusing to leave you in doubt. For that matter, why shouldn't I consort with whomever I please? You don't have any right to accuse me and make me feel guilty, even if I did sleep with your brother!"

"But you didn't, right?" Falathor asked hopefully.

"Maybe I didn't and maybe I did."

"Now you're only sulking," Falathor said, "It's most unbecoming on a maiden your age."

For a moment, a strange expression crossed Indithel's face. She still looked angry, but hurt and somehow bitter as well. She opened her mouth as if she meant to tell him something, but snapped it shut a second later without a word, folding her arms defiantly.

"What do you care anyway?" she asked finally.

"Why do I care?" Falathor said slowly, "Do you need to ask? Think, Indithel! Or if you cannot do that, feel! Can you not see it in my face? Look, and you will have your answer!"

"All I see," Indithel replied stubbornly, "Is an uncouth oaf who thinks Middle Earth exists merely for his pleasure. I do not want to talk to you anymore. Leave me now!"

"Very well," Falathor said, suddenly angry. He clenched his fists and glared down at her. "Very well. I am going to Tharbad. I don't know when I will come back, if ever, but I can assure you, I won't hurry back to you!" He spun around and stalked furiously out of the courtyard, muttering vaguely under his breath.

Indithel did not move for a while, until she was sure he was really gone. Then she slumped and closed her eyes. Her legs did not seem to hold her anymore; she sat down on the grass in the silent courtyard. She covered her face with her hands, and her slim shoulders shook silently. A breeze wafted by, passing softly over the bare spot of earth next to the pond, where the White Tree of Arnor had once bloomed, long years ago. But the Tree had rotted from within and died, and the only brightness left in the courtyard was the silent form of the weeping maiden.

"Indithel?" a voice called suddenly from somewhere not far away.

Indithel started up in surprise. She scrambled to her feet, brushing the grass and dirt off her dress and scrubbing her face to remove all traces of tears. Then she smiled perkily and skipped of toward the sound of the voice.  
"Coming, Ravenna …!"

 

"You're going where?" Anna cried, her voice rising to a shriek, "You're doing what? Why?"

She had invaded Trotter and Beleg's room, and stood there now with arms hanging loosely at her sides and an expression of utter stupefaction on her face. Trotter cringed. He was facing her with his back to the window, and Beleg was leaning against the wall next to the door opposite him, arms folded and looking very amused.

"You don't have to go with us if you don't want to," Trotter said apologetically, "We'd thought you'd want to come, but I guess we should've asked … You didn't want to come to the council, so … er, things sort of got decided like that." He finished lamely. Anna had not been overjoyed when he told her of his decision to go to Gondor on behalf of King Arvedui of Arnor, but his attempt at reconciliation now only seemed to make her even angrier.

"Oh, I see!" she hissed with narrowed eyes, "Not only do you go and decide for me that I'm going on a long and dangerous journey without asking, now you want to leave me behind too! Well, let me tell you, Trotter the Half-witted, you can't just make my choices for me like that! I'm going with you whether you like it or not!"

Trotter blinked. Something about that hadn't seemed quite right. Behind Anna, he could see Beleg, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. The Elfit had his arms wrapped around himself and was apparently having trouble standing. Trotter didn't find the situation all that funny. Nor did Anna, apparently, for she spun around to face the Elfit and if anything seemed to become even angrier, bristling with rage.

"And you!" she said, "What are you laughing at? You think wandering leagues through the wilderness with starvation in front and hungry wolves behind is going to be amusing? You think you are both going to be big heroes? And what is all this troth-brother business?"

"A custom among civilized people," Beleg replied mockingly, "Generally considered to be both honourable and polite. I am sorry we couldn't let you in on it – it is generally considered a thing for men, thus troth-brother. But if the Lady truly wishes it, I could take her as my troth-fool. The Lady would look excellent in a four-pointed hat."

"You won't be so cocky once we get to the Minhiriath," Anna replied bitterly, "I have seen it; I went there sometimes before I left Tharbad. It is a wilderness, untamed and pathless, filled with strange creatures."

"Such as yourself?" Beleg suggested, "If you are the worst Minhiriath has to offer, I think we will manage. While we're on the subject, why did you leave Tharbad?"

But at this Anna clamped her mouth shut and refused to say another word, sitting huffily down on Trotter's bed with her arms folded in disapproval. Trotter took a breath, hoping that the storm had passed. He really felt rather guilty for involving Anna in their journey, but on the other hand he did not want to go without her either. He had grown very fond of his odd, outcast, embittered and shy, but secretly gentle and loving companion. He supposed it was selfish; Anna would be much safer in Fornost or in the Shire, or basically anywhere but with them. On the other hand she would be much unhappier in those places without them, or so his heart told him.

"If you do indeed wish to come with us," Trotter said, "I gladly welcome your company. In fact, I ask for it. It would not be the same travelling without you! We will go by horse, quickly and quietly, and perhaps it will not be so dangerous as you think. Hopefully our journey will be unnoticed and uneventful, and if we succeed all of Arnor will be saved for certain. You know that is why I have to do this, or at least attempt it."

After a moment, Anna sighed but nodded, if reluctantly.

"You are taking unfair advantage of my unreasonable affection for you," she said, "But I suppose you do need some one who has a whole wit on a quest like this. You and Beleg together couldn't fill a thimble when it comes to common sense."

"Exactly," Trotter said amiably, relieved that Anna's anger had abated somewhat, "Who else could fill us with such pure joy with her mere presence?" His grin faded as Anna glowered at him.

"Now you are just humouring me," she growled, "You're a sneaky, cunning little creature and not half so innocent as you look."

Trotter shrugged, trying to look innocent.

"So that's agreed," Beleg said, sounding mostly amused as usual, "We will be leaving in a few days, I presume, and I -" but whatever Beleg was going to say next, he was interrupted by a voice from the door.

"I am afraid in a few days it will be too late! Things have taken a dark turn, and your departure must be hurried. We have been found out."

Falathor came striding quickly through the door to Trotter's side; it was he who had spoken. The Man had obviously been running. He was breathing quickly and his face was flushed. He also looked rather upset - the glance he cast on Trotter was dark with anxiety and excitement. But it was not this that made Trotter stare at him in surprise. For Falathor carried in his fist a naked blade, against all custom and courtesy. And following him came the tall young man Trotter knew to be Aranarth, son of Arvedui.

"Trotter, my friend, you must leave now, at this very moment if possible," Falathor said, "Or I fear you may never depart at all, save to a country far more distant than Gondor, and from which no traveller may ever return – and the rest of us will in all likelihood join you there all too soon."

"What?" Anna cried, "We cannot leave now! Nothing is prepared! You cannot expect us to run out into the night without provisions, without travelling gear, without taking council or even looking at any maps, on the path of at least a month-long journey!"

"And yet you must go," said Aranarth from the doorway. He spoke calmly and did not seem upset or out of breath like Falathor. He was much like his father, Trotter thought, and yet not so; younger and fresher, with a light dancing in his eyes that had long been darkened by sorrow and despair in those of Arvedui. "The situation is changed. My father has been attacked. He was closeted with Thorondil alone in the Tower of Sight, and commanded that none should disturb them. But I was troubled and wished to take council with him myself; for the desire had awoken in me to go with the company of the Calacolindo to our sister kingdom in the south. When I was walking up the stairwell to the council room, I heard a strange and terrible cry, full of fear and pain. It was not the voice of my father, but it struck me with dread, and I ran up to see what had come to pass. On the floor I found Arvedui, unconscious and wounded, and of Thorondil there was no sign. My father was attacked, and what has become of the Elf, I do not know."

"But who could have done such a thing?" Trotter asked in shock, "Were there not guards in the tower? How could a servant of the Enemy have come there?"

"And how could he have escaped?" Beleg added thoughtfully, "I saw only one doorway to the room today, and unless there is a secret entrance, anyone fleeing would have been seen by Aranarth." And he bowed to the king's son as he spoke his name.

"No one I know of can answer these questions," Aranarth replied, "Save perhaps my father himself, when he awakes. Gandalf is with him now, and perhaps with his power and wisdom he can recall him to wakefulness. But it cannot be hoped now that our plans remain secret. He now knows of the messengers, of their number and of their path. If you wait, you will find your road barred by the creatures of the Witch-King. Hope now lies in speed and secrecy; all three of you must disappear into the wilderness beyond discovery."

"And yet we will be discovered in the end," Anna said, "We are departing unprepared, and we will have to obtain provisions from somewhere. The wild lands do not offer much in this season, and even less to those who must hurry."

"Fear not!" Aranarth said, "You words hold wisdom – but all has been arranged. Your horses have been saddled and provisioned and await you now. We do not have time for further counsel. Farewell then, and go swiftly!"

He disappeared back out the door, the sound of his steps fading quickly.

"Come," Falathor said, "I will lead you now."

And, taking only his sword and his father's brooch, Trotter wrapped the his cloak about him and followed Falathor. Behind him came silently Beleg with his great bow on his shoulder, buckling his quiver to his belt, and Anna, who bore no weapon and took nothing beyond the Starflower which rested as ever about her neck.

They slipped into the corridor, and to any watcher it might have seemed that Falathor walked alone, for the three shapes behind him faded into the walls and stepped so softly that no sound could be heard. They met no one in the halls, and soon came to the doorway leading into the western courtyard. When they stepped outside the cold night air greeted them and the familiar stars shone overhead. Three tall shadows became, on closer inspection, their nervous horses, snorting and stamping impatiently. Trotter was glad to see that Nori was to be his mount again; the tall horses of Men were not very much to his liking, despite their strength and speed. Quickly they climbed onto their horses.

"Farewell!" Falathor said, "Follow the road straight on from the gate. You will come to a small guarded doorway, where you will be allowed to pass without trouble. Do not tarry on the road! I wish you luck, for all of our sakes!" He raised one hand, barely visible in the dim starlight. But before Trotter and his companions could ride out of the courtyard, a voice called to them from the shadows of the castle.

"Halt!"

Trotter started in surprise, and Nori pranced nervously. Falathor whirled around, looking for the invisible speaker. He did not have long to wait, for a shadow detached itself from the wall of the castle and stepped towards them. Trotter gasped in shock, for there in the faint light he recognized Thorondil, cloakless and dishevelled. The Elf walked as if in a dream, his feet noiseless on the paving stones.

"Thorondil!" cried Falathor in joy, "Where have you been? We searched for you, but everyone had begun to fear the worst!" Then he fell silent, for Thorondil did not answer, only stopped and stood motionless, his face lifted to the sky. Sudden fear awoke in Trotter's heart and he wished he were somewhere else. Something was wrong, and he was not sure he wanted to see what would follow.

Falathor, however, ran to the Elf without a thought of caution and seized him by the arms. Thorondil's gaze turned from the stars to light upon the Man, and Falathor saw in dismay that the Elf's face was marred with tears, glimmering like dark jewels upon his fair face. His lips were twisted as if in pain, but he spoke no word.

Then Trotter cried out and Nori reared in panic, for like a bolt of lightning a dagger flashed in Thorondil's hand, straight and fast as an arrow toward Falathor's heart. Falathor shouted in surprise and tried to pull backward, too slowly. But at the last moment the Elf's hand turned and he plunged the thirsty steel into his own flesh with a strangled sob.

"Ah, Arvedui! Mornië lantëa!" he cried, and slumped weakly, to be caught in Falathor's arms. Blood flowed quickly, pooling on the cobble stones.

"What evil deeds does this night herald!" Falathor said, bearing up Thorondil's limp body as best he could, "The Enemy's webs snare us even in the stronghold of the West!" Then he turned briefly to Trotter and his companions.

"Ride now!" he called to them, "Calacolindo! And look not back into failing hope!"

For but a moment Trotter lingered, reluctant to give up this last glimpse of his friend and the strong fastness of the city.

"Farewell, Farathor!" he cried finally, "May we meet again in happier times!" And he urged his horse forward, fleeing from Fornost in the dark of the night as he had from Bree but a week before, though this time he had two companions instead of one, and the road ahead was long and uncertain.

In the dark of the early morning they left the city of Fornost and turned to the south and west, towards the Shire.

Falathor watched the three mounted forms disappearing into the night for only a moment; then, dismissing them from his mind, he lifted up the fainting Elf and carried him quickly back into the castle. His long legs ate up the yards in the halls and he found himself nearly running, for he was certain that if he did not hurry it might become to late. Once he glanced at Thorondil's face, and one glance was enough. The Elf was pale as snow, and there were dark shadows around his eyes. Falathor could not tell if he lived, and he did not dare to stop and search for a heart-beat. He hurried on, up several stairways until he reached the King's room.

Guards flanked the door, but when they heard his name and saw what burden he carried, they allowed him to pass inside quickly.

The door closed behind him, and he took in the situation in a glance. He was in the King's chamber, a large and beautifully decorated room; Arvedui himself lay on the bed, motionless. By his side stood Aranarth and Gandalf, and Navri was seated not far away upon a stool. All three stared at him when as he strode to the bed and lay Thorondil down next to the immobile form of the King.

"You have found him!" Aranarth cried. Then he saw the bloody tear in the Elf's tunic and the wound underneath. "But who could do this?"

"His own hand drove the blade into his breast," Falathor replied, "But he was aiming for my heart at first. It was as if he were fighting a battle with himself. There is some madness at work, and I do not understand it!"

"Madness indeed," Gandalf said thoughtfully, leaning over Thorondil and laying his wrinkled hand upon the Elf's smooth brow, "More likely some device of the Enemy. He has many ways of snaring the innocent, and even the strong may be caught in his traps."

Then Falathor saw something he had not noticed before. In Thorondil's left hand, the one which had not held the dagger, was a dark stone clenched against his side, hidden until now by his cloak. Gandalf gently pried the object from the Elf's hand, which fell laxly onto the coverlet.

"The palantír," the Wizard said, "Now perhaps this riddle may be answered! An assassin enters the Tower of Seeing undetected, assaults the King and spirits away an Elf Lord, escaping equally undetected despite the fact that the only exit from the room was at that moment watched. Then he somehow drives his captive to madness so that he attempts to take his own life, all without showing so much as an eyebrow anywhere."

"What answer do you find in that?" Aranarth asked angrily, weary with worry and doubt, "It is nonsense, and impossible! Speak clearly, Gandalf, for this is not a time for jest!"

"I am not jesting," Gandalf answered mildly, "Merely thinking. And I believe I have the answer indeed. Thorondil looked into the palantír. Why, I do not know, for it was a foolish move and I have never known him to be a fool. Whatever was the reason, he encountered there a power greater than himself, which forced his will into submission and controlled his actions. There are very few beings that can overcome an Elf, and I am afraid it is clear who this power was! Thorondil thereafter attacked Arvedui under direction of a darker mind. You did not see him, Aranarth, when you ran into the council room, because he is an Elf Lord and it is within his power to hide himself in shadows and become silent and nearly invisible. So the Witch-King knows of our plans, and he sent his snared tool on the trail of the messengers; he was directed to kill you, Falathor, and them as well, most likely. Luckily for you, the hearts of Elves are strong! I would say that Thorondil won his battle at last, though he could not stop his hand, only turn it upon himself. But soon he will tell us himself. The wound is not fatal, Aranarth, and I suggest you call for the healers again!"

"There is no need," Aranarth said, "I will see to it myself. My father keeps the athelas herb in his chamber, and I have already administered it to him. He sleeps peacefully and will soon be healed. Now we will see what the hands of the Dúnedain may work upon the flesh of an Elf!" So saying, he went to a stone table by the side of the bed into which a shallow water-filled basin was carven. There was a small pouch next to the basin, and out of it Aranarth took a small handful of leaves. As he cast them into the water, a smell filled the air, pure and refreshing, clearing Falathor's mind of its worry and confusion, and he breathed deeply, feeling rested and strong. The king's son quickly soaked a white piece of cloth in the now fragrant water and, returning to the bedside, began to minister to Thorondil's wound.

"Perhaps in the end it is all for the best," Gandalf muttered as if to himself, watching as Aranarth worked, "He may have learned something from his contact with that sinister will, and every bit of knowledge is needed now."

Through the long hours of the early morning Aranarth tended the fallen Elf, and when the sun's rays broke in through the window, Thorondil's eyes opened, and he spoke aloud. Only three words he said, but these filled the hearts of all four listeners with dread so that even the dawn did not bring them hope.

"They are lost."


	9. The River Speaks

Dawn found Trotter and his companions in the lonely countryside, travelling west towards the Shire. They had passed the gate of Fornost without trouble, and ridden rather aimlessly through the night until they finally oriented themselves by the rays of the sun peeking timidly over the horizon.

It was a cold sunrise. The sun shone with a weak, watery light, and armies of iron-gray clouds congregated on the horizon, overpowering the already faint light. The country was hilly but bare, and there were no houses in this northern part of Arnor. Few trees grew here, and the grass was short and brittle. All three travellers shivered and pulled their cloaks tightly around them; but this was little comfort.

Trotter watched his shadow grow long before him as the sun lifted its tired head behind, then stared up at the sky with concern.

"I think we're going to have some bad weather," he said, breaking the silence.

Beleg lifted his head into the breeze, his eyes sparkling. Of the three of them, he seemed the least affected by the cold, and there was an air of energy and sprightliness about him.

"Winter has come," he said, "Overnight, or so it seems. The Witch-king stretches out his icy arm. We'll have snow, if I'm not mistaken, maybe even a storm at worst."

"Well, aren't you the bearer of good news," Anna remarked. Beleg cocked a mocking eyebrow at her.

"Afraid of the cold?" he said, "Don't worry, between the two of us I'm sure we can keep you warm … eh, Trotter?"

Trotter rolled his eyes. "Don't get me involved," he said, "This is your battle, my friend." He clutched the reins tightly and drew in his shoulders as a cold wind suddenly gusted over them, blowing out of the east. The chill seemed to sink into his bones, and for a moment he wished he were back in his cozy home in Bree, with the teapot singing over a crackling fire and breakfast just served, hot and ready to eat.

The sunlight did not last long, for clouds soon pulled up and covered its fitful rays. The messengers rode on stubbornly for some hours, talking softly in an attempt to forget the depressing weather and the wind, which seemed to press against them more and more, tearing at their faces and clothing with frosty fingers. Beleg especially seemed undaunted by the threatening skies, and told many amusing tales that brought even Anna to laughter. Trotter was doubly glad to have the Elfit as his companion. Beleg really was an exceptional story-teller, and his head was full of forgotten lore and tales both strange and fantastic. Trotter wondered just how much his friend knew, and how old he was, and whether Beleg would be willing to teach him some of his art.

"Why do the Elves have more than one language?" Trotter asked when there was a lull in the conversation; Beleg had just been speaking a verse in that strange and ancient tongue that they had heard among Thorongil's people on the way to Fornost.

"The tongue of the Grey Elves is what is spoken in Middle Earth today," Beleg said, "But the ancient Quenya is the language of Valinor, and the Noldor brought it to this land ages ago when they revolted and followed the Great Enemy here."

"Who were the Noldor?" Anna asked, eyes alight with curiosity, "Rebels, eh? Sounds like my kind of story … Who did they revolt against, and why? Won't you tell us about them?"

Beleg mouth curled in a half-smile. "Maybe," he said, "If you ask nicely and agree to call me the Greatest Bard and Most Excellent Master of Middle Earth from now on."

"There's no need to preen," Anna said irritably, "Just tell the tale."

Beleg half-bowed in his saddle. "Your whim is my command, lady," he said, and, after clearing his throat self-importantly with twinkling eyes, began to chant as he had days ago when he told the tale of Túrin the Cursed.

_"The Noldor were numbered by name and kin,  
marshalled and ordered in the mighty square  
upon the crown of Tirion. There cried aloud  
the fierce son of Finwë. Flaming torches  
he held and whirled in his hands aloft,  
those hands whose craft the hidden secret  
knew, that none Noldo or mortal  
hath matched or mastered in magic or in skill.  
'Lo! Slain is my sire by the swords of fiends,  
his death he has drunk at the doors of his hall  
and deep fastness, where darkly hidden  
the Three were guarded, the things unmatched  
that Noldo and Elf and the Nine Valar  
can never remake or renew on earth,  
recarve or rekindle by craft or magic,  
not Fëanor Finwë's son who fashioned them of yore -  
the light is lost whence he lit them first,  
the fate of Faërie hath found its hour.  
Thus the witless wisdom its reward hath earned  
of the Gods' jealousy, who guard us here  
to serve them, sing to them in our sweet cages,  
to contrive them gems and jewelled trinkets,  
their leisure to please with our loveliness,  
while they waste and squander work of ages,  
nor can Morgoth master in their mansions sitting  
at countless councils. Now come ye all,  
who have courage and hope! My call harken  
to flight, to freedom in far places!  
The woods of the world whose wide mansions  
yet in darkness dream drowned in slumber,  
the pathless plains and perilous shores  
no moon yet shines on nor mountain dawn  
far better were these for bold footsteps  
than gardens of the Gods gloom-encircled  
with idleness filled and empty days.  
Yea! Though the light lit them and the loveliness  
beyond heart's desire that hath held us slaves  
here long and long. But that light is dead.  
Our gems are gone, our jewels ravished;  
And the Three, my Three, thrice-enchanted  
globes of crystal by gleam undying  
illumined, lit by living splendour  
and all hues' essences, their eager flame –  
Morgoth has them in his monstrous hold,  
my Silmarils. I swear here oaths,  
unbreakable bonds to bind me ever,  
by Taniquetil and the timeless halls  
of Varda the Blessed that abides thereon –  
may she hear and heed – to hunt endlessly  
unwearying unwavering through world and sea,  
through leaguered lands, lonely mountains,  
over fens and forests and the fearful snows,  
till I find those fair ones, where the fate is hid  
of the folk of Elfland and their fortune locked,  
where alone now lies the light divine.'  
Then his sons beside him, the seven kinsmen,  
Crafty Curufin, Celegorm the fair  
Amrod and Amros and dark Caranthir,  
Maglor the mighty, and Maedhros tall  
(the eldest, whose ardour yet more eager burnt  
than his father's flame, than Fëanor's wrath;  
him fate awaited with fell purpose),  
these leapt with laughter their lord beside  
with linked hands there lightly took  
the oath unbreakable; blood thereafter  
it spilled like a sea and spent the swords  
of endless armies, nor hath ended yet:  
'Be he friend or foe or foul offspring  
of Morgoth Bauglir, be he mortal dark  
that in after days on earth shall dwell,  
shall no law nor love nor league of Gods,  
no might nor mercy, not moveless fate,  
defend him for ever from the fierce vengeance  
of the sons of Fëanor, whoso seize or steal  
or finding keep the fair enchanted  
globes of crystal whoso glory dies not,  
the Silmarils. We have sworn forever!'"_

Beleg stopped suddenly.

"What's the matter?" Anna asked, "Aren't you going to tell the rest?"

But Beleg was squinting at the sky, and all the humor had left his face. Trotter followed the Elfit's gaze and saw to his dismay that the grey clouds had become black and had drawn down close over their heads, frowning at the three small trespassers in the abandoned lands. It seemed the Elfit's prediction was destined to come true; a few snowflakes were drifting down upon their heads, and by the looks of things there would soon be more.

"Do you think we should stop?" Anna asked nervously, "Those clouds look dangerous to me."

"No!" Beleg said, "We can't waste any time! If we stop every time it snows we won't get to Gondor before the end of next year! It is winter, after all. Snow is normal."

"That doesn't look normal to me," Anna said, gazing doubtfully at the sky, "Yesterday the weather was completely ordinary. It's so strange, as if the storm were sent after us on purpose."

"If so," Beleg replied, "Then it is even more reason to keep on. A little thing like a snowstorm can't stop us, even if it was sent by the Witch-King …" his voice trailed off, and he swallowed. Obviously the idea of the Witch-King dropping untold amounts of snow onto their heads did not fill him with confidence. Anna looked pleadingly at Trotter, but he was inclined to agree with Beleg this time.

"We can't let ourselves be delayed," he said, "Come on. Just everyone keep in sight!"

They rode on through the falling snow. The wind changed direction, coming now from the west and blowing wet flakes into their faces, blinding them. The sky continued to grow darker, the snow fell faster, and the wind finally began to howl. Nori stumbled more and more often as the ground grew slippery and the footing unsure beneath them. Trotter drew up his hood to cover his face and bent his head into the wind. His eyes watered and the tears froze on his cheeks, but a stubborn anger had awoken in him, and he and his horse trudged on through the storm. His hands were clutched around the reins, and he wondered vaguely if he could still move them if he had wanted to. He peered ahead into the whirling whiteness in front of his nose, but could not see anything. He felt a sudden twinge of worry – what if they started going in circles? Perhaps they really should stop and wait out the storm. It was no use getting lost, after all, as that would only cause an even greater delay in the end.

Trotter glanced to his left, about to suggest to Beleg that they stop and strike a make-shift camp, but he saw with a start that the Elfit was not at his side. He looked around wildly, squinting his snow-filled eyes, but could see neither Beleg nor Anna nor any other living form.

"Anna!" he cried, but the wind ripped the words from his mouth and hustled them away. Gathering all his breath, he tried once more.

"BELEG!"

But the storm stole his words and, unmindful of its shameful theft, continued to blow even harder about him.

Trotter stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do, but finally decided he might as well go on. Eventually he would run into the Brandywine River, and there he could stop and rest. His companions would find their way there in the end as well, and he would be able to search for them after the storm blew itself out. Or so he hoped.

He turned back into the wind, judging that in this manner he would be able to keep on a straight line westwards, and fought on through the blustering snow.

Trotter had no idea how long he rode like that, head bowed and hunched behind Nori's neck; it must have been hours, though he could not tell the time of day in the twilight of the snowstorm. At times he drifted into a half-dream, his head nodding and darkness hovering at the borders of his mind. He wondered what would happen if he fell asleep, but dismissed the thought. It seemed unimportant.

Much later, after a seemingly endless period of riding and cold, snow and yet more snow, he could finally bear it no longer. He felt frozen stiff, like the snow-hobbits that he had built with his father when he was younger. And then he really might have slipped into a dream, never to awake, had it not been for Nori, his horse.

As Trotter's head sank slowly down to rest upon his horse's mane, Nori whinnied once in fear, rebelling against the master who had led her into this unbearable cold, and suddenly reared upon her hind legs. Caught off guard, Trotter was thrown onto the ground; and before he even realized what had happened, Nori had galloped away and disappeared into the snow blowing around him. He stared after her in dismay, and for a moment he almost despaired. But Trotter was a Hobbit, and the Halflings are a cheerful people whom even the most hopeless of situations cannot daunt. So he stumbled to his feet, and muttering bad-temperedly under his breath about hot soup and feather beds, wandered further against the wind with one arm raised to protect his face.

After a while, his steps slowed, and he frowned. It sounded as if the noise of the storm were changing. Was the wind growing softer? Was it finally over? He thought he could see a little; there seemed to be a flat plain ahead of him, and some dark tall figures like trees standing around. Snow blew into his nose, and he sneezed, quickly pulling his arm back over his face, and started toward the tree-like things. Excitement grew in him; he could not be mistaken, the storm really was growing weaker! The wind gusted less fiercely, and he could hear something else now. What was that? There was a gurgling noise in front of him. It sounded almost like water.

Before he could reflect on the meaning of this, Trotter stumbled over a muddy bank and fell face first into the unfathomed depths of the Brandywine River.

Anna lay stunned in the snow, all her breath paining her as if in punishment for her audacity in braving the power of nature. Her mind was numbed by cold; she felt as if she had been thrown into black, icy water, and all the warmth was seeping out of her limbs faster than she thought would have been possible. An uncontrollable trembling seized her, and she gasped for air, panicking, drowning in the snow. Her eyes watered as with shuddering hands she grabbed at her neck, clutching at the Starflower in the vain hope as if the beautiful necklace could somehow warm her.

Suddenly a face appeared in her view, masked in darkness, and two vivid blue eyes stared down at her. Shrieking, Anna tried vainly to strike at whatever phantom had decided to haunt her at her moment of death, but the stranger grabbed her hands, stilling her weak struggles easily. He hauled her to her feet, and with a flood of relief Anna realized that it was Beleg. His eyebrows were frosted, but he seemed calm and undisturbed.

"Easy!" she heard him cry through the wind, "It's me! You fell off the horse!" He pantomimed a person falling from a horse.

Anna nodded, teeth chattering. She desperately wanted to say something bitingly clever, but nothing came to mind at the moment. Snow was frozen onto her face, and she could hardly move. She slumped and would have fallen once more, but Beleg wrapped his arm around her waist and dragged her with him to where his horse still stood, legs spread and ears flattened, snorting in the wind. The Elfit pushed her onto the animal and jumped up lightly behind.

"Where's Trotter?" he yelled into her ear.

Anna shook her head, trembling. "Didn't see …" she whispered through clenched teeth.

Beleg looked at her with an unreadable expression on his face. His face was blurred in her eyes through tears and snow. Where was Trotter? What if he was lost? She felt like crying. Her only friend, and she had lost him already! She would be stuck with Beleg forever! Why had she let Trotter go on this stupid quest? She should have talked him out of it, shouldn't have put up with this nonsense, should have, should have, should have!

"Don't worry," Beleg said, leaning close to her so he didn't have to yell over the wind. Anna realized that she was sobbing angrily and forced herself to stop. She wasn't about to give the Elfit the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart – it was bad enough he'd seen her fall off her horse.

"We'll find him!" Beleg said. He didn't sound mocking, in fact, Anna would almost have thought he was honestly trying to comfort her. "Trotter's no fool," the Elfit continued, "He will keep going west, and he'll run against the Brandywine in the end. We'll meet him there!"

"But what if …?" Anna swallowed and decided not to finish the question. What if he was lost or hurt somewhere in the storm? She didn't have to ask to know what would happen then.

"Don't worry!" Beleg said again, "Just keep warm!"

He reached around her with both arms and grabbed the reins. It took some convincing to get their horse moving again, but finally the animal obeyed the commands of its master and they started off again with the wind in their faces. Anna hunched her shoulders around her and shoved her hands under her armpits. She was still shivering, but the Elfit sitting behind her seemed to be radiating some heat; he pressed close against her, and she could feel the bitter cold retreating and her mind becoming clearer again. Beleg's head was bowed into the wind, leaning slightly over her shoulder, and she could feel his breath against her neck.

Anna stared down at Beleg's hands on the reins. Although the Elfit did not seem to be suffering from the cold nearly as much as she, his skin was blue and his hands shook as well. She hesitated for a moment, then covered his hands with her own, drawing her cloak over them both. Beleg said nothing, but she could feel his skin warming beneath her own.

Bowed against the storm, they battled through the elements, heading west.

Trotter's cry of surprise was choked off by water closing over his head and rushing into his nose. It was unbelievably cold and seemed thicker than water should be, weighing on his body as he tried to kick his way back to the surface. Trotter could swim, but this was little help under the circumstances. Which way was up? All directions were equally dark. He blew a small stream of precious air out of his nose, watching the bubbles. They floated away in front of him, and off to the side. Frantically, Trotter tried to free himself of his cloak and pack, but found that one arm and leg were hopelessly entangled. His lungs began to burn while the rest of him froze. Something was pulling at him – the current, dragging him away from air. The darkness seemed to be closing in on his vision. His eyes stung and a deadly exhaustion gripped him. He had travelled far that day. It would be so nice to rest, just for a minute . . .

Panicking, Trotter kicked wildly with both legs, shutting his eyes and concentrating on moving. He wriggled and twisted, hoping blindly that he was going in the right direction. Air! He had to have air! The dark water was in his nose, his ears and eyes, his mind. Air, air! Oh, the sweet taste of air filling his lungs . . . He longed to breathe, to cool the burning in his chest. He opened his mouth, ready to gulp in air or water, life or death, unable to help himself.

His head broke the surface of the water. With a huge gasp, he sucked air into his lungs, feeling it burn through him. Sweeter than any wine, it rushed through him. Slowly the darkness began to clear from his mind, and he found, to his surprise, that he could see. A pale light shone around him, rendering his surroundings dim but visible. He could not hear any wind, and there was no snow; as he looked around, he wondered if he had fallen asleep after all, or gone mad from the howling of the storm.

The bank of the river was a few feet to his left. Drawing on his last reserves of strength, Trotter paddled through the water until he reached it, pulled himself out and lay on the ground, gasping with exertion.

He was in a grotto, underground, the far end on his right hand open to the sky. Through the opening he could see the snow blowing by, but he did not feel so cold anymore. He wondered why; by all rights he should be dead, falling into water that temperature. But warmth seemed to be suffusing him from somewhere. He realized that the stone beneath him was hot, and there was a strange smell in the air. The air seemed hazy and wet, warm like steam. Maybe it was magic, but whatever it was and wherever it came from, he wasn't about to complain.

Behind him was the water; the river must flow underground to this place, a cave hollowed out in the days when the Brandywine was even greater. The floor was grey sand, the walls stone. Stone? But they shone, these walls, with light like that of the stars. As his breathing grew easier, Trotter said up and looked around him in wonder. The walls sparkled with white light, weak but still beautiful. Perhaps it was a mine … but there were no gems. It was the stone itself that seemed to give off light. Columns hung from the ceiling and rose from the ground. And the stone was carven too; there was a huge stone table, bare and shining like the walls, in the centre of the grotto. The walls and table dripped, and the sandy floor was covered with steaming pools. So that was where the warmth came from – hot water welled out of the ground and overflowed here.

"Now where might I be?" Trotter said out loud to himself, forgetting his problematic predicament for the moment, "One would think it was Dwarvish, for the Dwarves love caves, or Elvish, as the Elves cherish everything lovely, and yet it feels different from either of these. Clearly it is not a place of Men, nor of Hobbits. And that table was not made by Nature." His curiosity got the better of him, and forgetting his previous fear and discomfort, he stood and made his way around the puddles to the table. It was so large that he could barely see over the top. Standing on a nearby rock, he climbed onto the tabletop.

In the centre of the table was a hollow, filled with water so still it was nearly invisible. Spellbound, Trotter crept close to it. A strange mood gripped him; he felt that he must look into the water or be haunted by a desire to behold it for the rest of his days. The light of the walls reflected off the pool. Trotter knelt over the water, wide-eyed and intent. Suddenly, he started. The water changed; it seemed to shine of itself, like a mirror, and he saw his own face reflected in it. Two sets of grey eyes regarded each other in shock from beneath a sodden tangle of black curls; the high cheekbones and straight noses were equally marked with astonishment. As quickly as it had appeared, the vision was gone, and the water clear once more.

But all was not as it had been. Within the pool there now lay a gem, cold and clear as the water itself. It was shaped like a flower, its delicate petals opened. Trotter could have held it in the palm of one hand easily, and with this thought came the desire to do so. As mighty and mysterious as the Silmarils themselves, so seemed this jewel to the Hobbit as he knelt crouched upon the table. And with a power like that of the Great Jewels, it gripped his mind with a longing, a desire painful but sweet, of the kind that has driven Men and Elves to deeds unspeakable. Visions of himself, holding the gem in his hand, under the admiring gaze of the Men and Hobbits of Bree filled his mind. There was magic in it for sure – who knew what powers it might give him? Even the Elves would envy him such a treasure. He saw himself, respected among the peoples of the land. He saw them, looking at him with awe as he held the mirror in his hand and told them what he saw in its depths.

His eyes filled with the radiance of the crystal flower, Trotter reached out one hand to draw it out of the pool. As his hand touched the surface of the water, the surface rippled and the silence was broken with an echoing splash. Trotter jerked his hand back, looking around guiltily. What had he done?

But no, the splash had come from the water at the other end of the grotto. Where only a few moments ago Trotter had pulled himself out of the river, a figure was now rising. Trotter leaped to his feet.

"What are you, that you have come here?" the figure asked in a voice like the low murmur of a small waterfall as it stepped out of the stream. The light in the cave grew, and Trotter saw that he faced a tall woman, clad in shimmering green raiment. Where she stepped, pools formed. Her hair was green as weeds, her skin pale and her eyes dark. Her face was fierce and hungry, unrelenting and cold.

"I am Trotter, a Hobbit," Trotter said boldly, "And a wanderer. What are you?"

"I am the River," she replied.

And she looked it, too. She moved with the flowing movement of water, and water gleamed on her skin. Trotter swallowed.

"Is it yours?" he asked, meaning the gem in the pool.

"You have seen the Lily?" the river-woman seemed shocked, her pale face hardening and her cold eyes widening in anger. "You covet it, Trotter the Ranger." It was not a question. "Seldom indeed do wanderers of the dry lands come here. Few see the Lily, but all hunger for it. I see the greed in your eyes! It is mine. You cannot have it!" Her eyes burned into him.

But Trotter was no ordinary, timid hobbit. The river-woman's haughty tone struck a chord in him, and he firmed his stance, drawing Nyéra from its sheath.

"You keep such a thing here hidden from all eyes!" he said angrily, "It should be seen! I shall take it! You have had it for an eternity; why should I not keep it now?"

The river-woman looked in fear at Nyéra. The sword was dark in Trotter's hand, and the shining walls cast no light on it.

"You bring sorrow into this place of peace," she hissed, "You seek to take the Lily from its rightful owner. Do you think yourself just, Trotter the Hobbit?" Her voice sneered at him. "The Lily is mine, and you but a common thief!"

And as the light gleaming from the walls fell upon her, Trotter saw the river-woman in a new light. Cold she was, truly, but only as night and snow are cold; under sunlight she would warm even as water does. Her river had hollowed out this cave, and she had lived here for years before Trotter had been born, and would remain when he had long passed away. There was mud in her hair, and silt on her clothing. She knew only herself, and possessed only her Lily.

Slowly, Trotter lowered his sword. He looked down at the jewel in the water, and it was as if a shadow passed from his mind. For a moment he was tempted to laugh at himself. He was on a hopeless, secretive quest, wandering the wild lands - what did he want with a gem, no matter how pretty

"I am sorry," he said. He felt himself blushing as he sheathed Nyéra. "You are right. I have no right to take what is yours." Without another glance at the Lily, he leaped down from the table.

The river-woman stood, her arms hanging at her sides. She seemed at a loss, even more surprised than she had been when she first saw him. Then suddenly, she laughed, a fierce and wild laugh like that of the rapids.

"A Hobbit, are you?" she said, "Such a thing I have never seen! Hobbits must be held in great respect in the dry lands, for they are more steadfast and humble than Man or Elf!"

Trotter refrained from saying that most hobbits he knew were merely dull.

"I thank you for your kind words, lady," he said, "But I must leave now, and find my friends. We were separated in the storm …"

"Ah, but wait!" the lady of the water said, "You alone of all who have come here have given up the Lily of your own will. I would have swept you away with a flood had you tried to take it by force; but by your own fairness, you have resisted its call. So I know you, for I was told that only one would come who could deny it. You are he."

"What?" Trotter asked nervously, "I'm who?"

"You have been looking for me," said the river-lady, ignoring his doubtful expression, "And I have been waiting for you. I was told that one would come with a pure and steadfast heart. You have passed the test, and so I see that you are the one I wait for."

"Really …?" Trotter said, uncertain of how to respond. This was unexpected – he wasn't sure he wanted to be whomever the lady was waiting for. It was quite enough for him to be on a dangerous quest, without having magical beings and great ladies popping up with mysterious comments about his identity.

"Yes," she continued, "I come to you as a messenger from the Lord of the Waters."

This did not clarify things at all. "The Lord of the Waters?" Trotter asked, "Who is he?"

She looked at him impassively. "Ulmo! You do not know him," she said, "But he knows you. Do you not dream of water? Do you not hear the voices of the lakes and streams you pass by? It is because the grace of the Ulmo shields you. He sees many things, and the affairs of the dry lands concern him, though he rules only the sea. Long ago his power faded from Middle Earth and he withdrew deep beneath the salt waters; but he still has strength when he chooses, and the rivers and lakes obey him and speak with his voice. I, now, speak for him. Do you wish to hear his message?"

Confused, Trotter nodded his head, wondering what the Lord of the Sea could have to say to him.

"Hear then, Trotter the Hobbit!" said the water-lady, "You have set yourself against Doom, and he does not like to be contradicted. In taking on this task you defy fate. But there are other powers in the world besides the one who sits in his halls beyond the Sea and knows all things, and perhaps you may yet change what will come to pass. Darkness is foreordained, but you are the Bearer of Light, and you may choose your own path. I do not know if you will succeed, but however your will leads you, remember this: In the end, if you so wish, you may come to the Sea. It awaits you." And she fell silent.

Trotter did not speak for a moment, hoping that she would add something less mysterious.

"Is that all?" he asked finally, "But I don't understand any of it! What is it supposed to mean?"

"I cannot say," the lady replied, "I am only the messenger. Perhaps you will come to understand. But I know that you are under the protection of Ulmo. His grace is upon you, and so is mine. Do not fear water; it is your ally, and will aid you when you least expect it. Remember Arneniel, and fear not! But you must go now. The dry lands await you."

"But I …" Trotter said. Arneniel paid no heed to him. She stepped back into the flowing river and began to sink back slowly into the dark waters.

"Farewell!" she called.

Too confused to protest, Trotter walked with heavy steps to the far end of the grotto. The storm had abated, but it was not over; and he still did not know where Anna and Beleg were. As he made his way toward the opening where the cave led to a pathway to the outside, he looked back but once. Arneniel stood watching him, one pale hand raised in farewell. He turned and plunged into the white world, leaving behind the river.

Outside, the cold air smote him with a hand of iron, and he shivered in his wet clothes. All his exhaustion returned, and he would have slept on the spot had he not feared that the cold and snow might kill him. Ice began to form on his clothes. He stumbled on through the dark, for darkness had fallen indeed and the day died into a frozen night. He wondered blearily if he could coax his numb hands to make a fire. Strange night noises filled the air, half-heard through the fading snowstorm. At every eerie sound, Trotter started and grasped at his sword hilt, determined not to succumb to death without a fight, only to sink back into weary indifference a few moments later. His feet, as numb as his hands, were constantly stumbling, and he stubbed his toes more times than he could count.

Finally, unable to go any farther, he fell to the ground and lay like one dead. The wind blew more gently, and a blanket of snow began to cover him until he was but another small drift on the white earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excerpt from The Lays of Beleriand, pgs. 161-163. Modified by the author in accordance with The Silmarillion.


	10. In the Heart of the Shire

Trotter dreamed. The wind was blowing with a great howling noise, and he was on an endless plain of ice that was cracking apart beneath him. Whiteness stretched out blindingly in all directions, laced with black lines like giant cobwebs. He could hear the crackling as slabs of ice broke apart into smaller and smaller pieces, floating away to reveal deep blue water underneath. It was getting warmer, and the ice was melting and the crackling grew louder and louder until it filled his ears. Crack! The slab he was standing on broke in half, and he scuttled to the opposite side. Crunch! A giant rift appeared right in front of him, and he could feel himself tipping, tipping toward the freezing water …

… Trotter opened his eyes to the sullen grey sky peeking through green branches above him. He was lying on the ground outside in the shelter of a tall evergreen with blankets heaped upon him, and there was a fire burning next to him; it was the source of the warmth and the crackling he had heard in his dream. Trees raised their green, snow-covered heads all around, and there was a dim sound of water nearby. He felt numb and tired and could not remember what had happened or why he wasn't inside a warm house in such weather. For a moment he merely rested, watching the bright sparks float by above his head. He wriggled his toes, relieved to find them intact and unfrozen, and flexed his hands by his sides.

Suddenly, memory rushed back with all the force of an avalanche. He had fallen into the river … and that had not been a dream. But he could not remember anything after he had stumbled back out into the storm. How had he survived, apparently unharmed?

"Am I really still alive?" he wondered aloud to himself.

"Well, I don't know many dead Hobbits that can talk!" replied an unfamiliar voice cheerfully.

With a yelp, Trotter started up, scattering the blankets around him. He stared around wildly, looking for the speaker, and found himself face to face with the mischievous brown eyes and insolent grins of two young Hobbits, sitting across from him on the other side of the fire. He blinked, wondering if he was seeing double, for the two Hobbits were so much alike in face and bearing that they could have been the same person. Both had the curly dark brown hair typical of their people, and their lively brown eyes danced with identical amusement at his surprise.

"Good morning!" said the one who had spoken before, "I'm Falco Oldbuck."

"And I'm Folco Oldbuck," said the second.

"We're twins," said Falco.

"Identical twins," added Folco.

And immediately they both burst into laughter, seeing the dumbfounded look on Trotter's face. He blinked in confusion, wondering which question out of the multitude that was clamouring in his head to ask first.

"How …?" he said, not sure himself exactly what he wanted to know.

"I suppose you're wondering how you got here, and who we are, and why we are here, aren't you?" said the one who had called himself Falco helpfully.

"No, I think he's wondering how he can get something to eat quickly," Folco disagreed, "As any sensible person would in his situation!"

"Not everyone always thinks of food, Folco!" Falco said in exasperation to his brother, "I'm sure he's much more interested in other matters right now!"

"What do you know?" Folco replied tartly, "I'll bet he's just ravenous, too! Well," he continued, rounding on Trotter suddenly, "Which of us is right?"

"Both," Trotter said, finally finding his tongue. He sat up fully and pulled the blankets back around himself, shivering in the cold air. "I must admit I am rather hungry," he continued, "But hardly less curious!"

"You see?" said Folco, "I was right!"

"So was I!" Falco retorted.

"Right," said Folco, "How about some vittles?" And quick as a flash he began rummaging in a large leather bag lying next to the fire, pulling out a fair amount of sausages, rolls, butter, jam, eggs, apples, ale, and even some honey in a small jar (Hobbits are not the sort to travel unprepared when it comes to matters of food). With flink fingers he speared the sausages onto some long sticks and stuck them into the ground leaning over the coals; this done, he began to butter the rolls. Falco grabbed an apple and tossed it to Trotter, then took one himself and began to munch on it nonchalantly.

"We've already had breakfast," he explained, "But not second breakfast yet, and we'll be glad to share it with you! Well, Mr. Wanderer, what is your name?"

"Trotter," said Trotter, taking a bite out of the apple. His stomach growled and he realized how hungry he was. He had not eaten since lunchtime yesterday, and that is a very long time for a Hobbit!

"Really? What an odd name," Falco remarked, "But you are a Hobbit, of course. From what family?"

"The Marchbanks of Bree," Trotter said, "I have some relatives in the Shire, in Michel Delving, but none in the east. You are from the eastern marches, I assume?"

"Of course!" Falco said, "We're Oldbucks, as we said. We came out for a little boating trip – wanted to have some fun before the winter set in! But it seems winter was too quick for us this year, leastways this storm was in a real hurry to put an end to the harvesting season and the boating season alike. Our boats are over there, on the bank of the Brandywine." He pointed vaguely in the direction beyond Trotter.

Trotter twisted around slightly, taking in his surroundings, which he had hardly noticed before. They were close to the river, facing south, at the edge of a small clearing among the trees that lined the Brandywine, and evergreen branches hung over their heads, casting deep shadows on the earth beneath and protecting them from the worst of the wind and cold. The brothers had built a makeshift camp here, with their backs to a wide pine tree and the fire sheltered by several large boulders. There was a tiny cove some feet away, and two boats were pulled up into it, of the small, rowing kind that the Hobbits who live by the river are fond of using. The water flowed by sluggishly, a depressing greyish-brown colour, and snow was piled everywhere, though it was already much warmer than it had been yesterday. The fire burned merrily, and Trotter felt his spirit lifting and his strength returning even before Folco handed him two sausages wrapped in buttered rolls.

"I'm sure you'll find these tasty," said the young Hobbit, "Our own recipe, delicious and perfectly suited for travelling! We call them hot logs, what with the log shape and all."

"Then you travel a lot?" Trotter asked, biting into the first hot log, which was quite as satisfactory as Folco had promised.

"Not so much," answered Falco, "At least, not outside of the Shire. We like boating – that's why we're here now, as I said before. Lucky for you, too! We were coming up the river yesterday when all of a sudden that storm blew up out of nowhere, and it started snowing like anything. So we pulled our boats up out of the water and struck camp here under the shelter of the trees. Then sometime in the evening the snow and wind started to let up, and I had just popped out for a look around when all of a sudden I saw a Hobbit wandering around, looking half-dead and all lost! I was just about to speak when you fell down, and by the time I reached you, you were already unconscious. So Folco and I carried you over here to the fire to try and warm you up. I can tell you, we were mighty worried for a minute! Your feet were all blue and we were afraid frostbite had set in … but all's well that ends well, as my gaffer always says!"

"But tell us," Folco said curiously, "Who are you, and what are you doing wandering around here alone with nothing but a very odd sword?"

"I'm not alone at all," Trotter replied, finishing his second hot log. He felt much better already, and the thought had struck him that he did not know where Anna and Beleg were, or if they were all right, or what he should do next. "Or at least, I wasn't alone – I have two companions. We were separated in the storm, and now I'm not sure how I should go about finding them. You haven't seen anyone else, have you?" he asked anxiously.

Falco and Folco shook their heads unanimously.

"We haven't seen anything but snow or heard anything but wind since yesterday," said Falco.

"Then I don't know where they could be," Trotter said, staring down at his hands in his lap, "Anywhere at all, most likely … but I absolutely must find them! I can't continue on by myself!"

"Continue on to where?" Folco asked.

"Well …" said Trotter, hesitating. He did not feel he should tell the whole of his errand to just anyone, even a pair of well-meaning Hobbits who had saved his life. But he had to give some sort of explanation. "I did indeed live in Bree," he said finally, "But now I am coming from Norbury**, where I have seen the King and taken part in a council on behalf of Hobbits. I am a messenger of sorts – my companions and I are going to the Shire and then on to Tharbad by way of Sarn Ford, and we are to alert everyone on the way of the danger coming." It was a lie, but not so far from the truth.

"Danger?" said Folco, spell-bound, "What kind of danger?"

"Now wait a minute," Falco said with a frown, "If there's something so important happening as to make the King send a messenger to the Shire – which I well know hasn't happened in many a year! – then I don't think we should be talking about it here. My uncle the Thain of the Oldbucks should hear about it, and the Took as well, most likely. You'll be wanting to come with us back down the river, I expect."

"Yes, but I …" Trotter began, then noticed for the first time that he was missing something. "Where is my sword?" he asked anxiously.

"The great black thing?" Folco asked with a shudder, "You had it in your hand when we found you, but we couldn't find a scabbard for it. You must have lost that somewhere along the way … we put the sword into some leather wrapping for you, to dry it out." He twisted around and dug once more into a different bag, turning back a minute later with Nyéra held gingerly in his hand.

"What a strange weapon," Falco said, shaking his head, as his brother extended the blade carefully towards Trotter. Falco obviously did not know much about swords; he was offering Nyéra to Trotter with the sharp end forward. Trotter leaned gingerly away from the black point.

Suddenly, an arrow whistled through the air, barely missing Folco and landing with a thwack in the tree behind them.

Folco yelped and dropped the sword, tumbling backwards to the ground in shock. At the same moment, Trotter leaped haltingly to his feet, searching the surrounding woods for the source of the arrow.

"Beleg!" he shouted, "Don't shoot!"

For he had, of course, guessed the identity of the archer, and sure enough, a few seconds later Beleg himself came bounding out of the trees at the south end of the clearing. His long bow was in his hands with an arrow knocked, but when he saw Trotter waving at him a look of delight crossed his face and he put away his weapons in a flash, running on light feet towards the little camp and catching Trotter's hand in a clasp of friendship.

"Trotter!" he cried, ignoring Folco, who was looking at him with a scowl on his face, "You are well! We feared you were lost in the storm, or captured by servants of the Enemy!"

Trotter grinned, but before he could answer, he was distracted by a streak of gold hurtling towards him from the same direction Beleg had appeared from. He found himself engulfed in a hug by Anna, who seemed hardly able to contain her joy.

"Thank heavens I've found you again!" she said, "Beleg just won't listen to any sort of reason! I told him there wouldn't be any Orcs around here – practically in the Shire! – but he insisted on getting out that bow of his and shooting at everything in sight without even stopping to find out what it is! And now look, he could've killed you, or … or …" She trailed off and stared at the twins, who had gotten to their feet and were watching the strange reunionwith matching expressions of confused interest.

Trotter cleared his throat.

"These are my companions," he said, "Anna Applethorn and Beleg of Lindon."

"Pleased to meet you …" Falco said, eyes twinkling as he extended his hand towards Anna in greeting, "I'm Falco Oldbuck."

"And I'm Folco Oldbuck," Folco said immediately.

"They're twins," Trotter added.

Falco and Folco grinned roguishly.

"Identical twins!" they chorused in unison.

A few hours later, Trotter sat in the bow of a small boat, watching the chilly Brandywine flow around him. Nyéra was in his lap, wrapped in brown leather until he could find a new scabbard for it, and his hands rested easily upon the unassuming package. After some discussion and a modified account of Trotter's errand, the five travellers had eventually decided to depart with all haste for Buck Hall, home of the Thain of the Oldbucks, which they could reach in a few days by boat. Beleg was forced to leave behind his horse, as it could not travel with them by water, but since Anna and Trotter's mounts had also disappeared in the storm, the remaining animal could not have been much help to the three of them anyway. Trotter hoped the horses would find their way back home eventually, for Anna's sake if nothing else.

They had divided up the baggage and piled into the two little boats, setting off at about ten o'clock in the chilly morning. Trotter and Beleg joined Folco in the first boat, while Falco, winking mischievously, invited Anna to travel with him in the rear. She had accepted with a smile, though Beleg frowned darkly – he had not been amused by the twins' irreverent humour and light speech, and they had not forgotten his unprovoked arrow either.

The riverbanks passed by swiftly, lined with trees of varying heights that often trailed their branches in the brown stream. Trotter watched the swirls and eddies in the current idly, fascinated by the movement of the water. The sky was still overcast, though the amount of snow diminished noticeably as they continued southwards, and by the end of the first day it had disappeared altogether. On the evening of that day they camped on the west bank of the river, within the Shire itself, and by the following morning the clouds had finally broken and blue sky greeted their eyes. The Brandywine looked much more cheerful here within the actual Shire; the trees, a mixture of dark evergreens and vivid autumn colours, waved brightly in the breeze, and the water looked more pleasant under clear skies. The wind blew white, fluffy clouds across the horizon, and the scenery was almost like a picture in a storybook. They travelled for some days in this picturesque setting, and Trotter almost forgot the danger inherent in his journey, imagining that he was merely taking a little vacation himself, on his way back home.

On the afternoon of the fifth day they passed the Brandywine Bridge, and Trotter began to look eagerly for the familiar sights of the East Farthing. He had passed this way before, on the East Road on his way to visit relatives in the western part of the Shire, but that had been years ago. Now he watched the villages and towns appear over the horizon, chimneys puffing innocently with smoke from the cheery fires inside. The Shire was bright in the harvest season, its little woods and rolling hills charming as ever, the roads filled with children enjoying the last warmth of the year and farmers driving their carts to market. There were other boats on this part of the river, and some of the water-goers greeted the twins as they passed, but Trotter did not recognize anyone he saw.

It was late in the evening of the seventh day when they reached Buck Hall. The Hall was located in the southern Marish in the town of Deephallow, a small settlement on the Brandywine, facing the borders of the Old Forest across the water, and inhabited mostly by the Oldbucks and related families. Trotter was watching the river again when they rounded a minor bend and the large hill rose in front of them. It was a hobbit-hole, to be sure, but as much greater than a normal hole as a palace is compared to an ordinary house. The Hall was delved out of Buck Hill next to the river, its many windows and doors dug into all sides, though the main ones faced the Brandywine or the road on the opposite side. Yellow light streamed out of the windows into the evening darkness, and the merry sound of laughter floated in the air. Whole generations of Oldbucks and their relatives lived in the Hall, which was in truth an endless warren of rooms and corridors, pantries and dining rooms and kitchens to make a Hobbit's heart weep with delight. Still, this was only a shadow of the magnificence of Brandy Hall, which would be built years later on the east bank of the Brandywine.

There was a fair-sized dock in front of the Hall and a path leading to a large, round door with a lantern hanging beside it. This was called the Dock Door, and it was used mostly by Hobbits wanting to go for an idle boat ride on the Brandywine. Folco and Falco tied their boats to the piers and hopped out quickly, calling to Trotter and his companions merrily.

"We've arrived just in time!" Falco laughed, "They're having the Harvest Feast! It falls every year on the third Friday in October – and today is Friday, all right, the twentieth!"

"You'll be treated to a real feast now," Folco added, "Even the Bree-Hobbits can't cook like the Oldbucks, meaning no offence, of course." And he bowed slightly to Trotter.

"None taken!" replied Trotter amiably, climbing out of his boat. He hesitated for a moment over Nyéra, but in the end decided to leave it inside his pack, well hidden in its cloth.

"And dancing!" Falco continued, "You'll get all the dancing you can ask for as well tonight! Of course," he added, turning to Anna, "If you feel like celebrating, might it please you to grant me one dance?"  
"Certainly," Anna said, blushing with pleasure. She had spoken little that day, and merely watched the countryside pass by, smiling slightly the whole time. The Shire reached some part of her heart that had been cold and empty before; it was like a home, a place where even she could feel she belonged. Neither Falco nor Folco had made the slightest comment about her appearance or identity (unlike practically every Man she had ever met), and the Hobbits they had passed by on the river had waved to her with dimpled smiles, so that she waved back in surprise, wondering at their friendliness.

"Lovely," Beleg remarked blandly, "You can compete over who is the more clumsy. Hopefully the other guests can escape before you break their feet as well as each other's."

"At least they'll be out of the way in case someone randomly begins to shoot arrows at them," Falco retorted.

Beleg scowled, but did not take his bow from off his back.

Folco opened the Dock Door, and the five of them filed inside into a wide corridor. It was empty, and the rooms around were silent, but a faint sound of laughter and music came from further away.

"Everyone will be in the Great Room," Folco said, "I'll just run off and find the Thain and tell him you've come – Falco will show you to a chamber where you can leave your baggage."

Folco disappeared down an adjoining hallway while Falco led them further down the current one. They soon arrived at a good-sized room with south-facing windows where they put down their packs, cloaks, and weapons, and quickly washed some of the dust of travel off of their faces and raiment. With no further delay, they hurried on through the spacious, wood-floored tunnels, drawing ever closer to the sounds of merry-making.

After a few minutes the corridor widened even further and they arrived at the Great Room. It was well deserving of its name, rising to a surprising height and brightly lit with dozens of lively lamps. The walls were decorated in autumn colours and hung with dried corncobs and wheat bushels. A huge fireplace filled one wall, and there was a space cleared in front of it, where some Hobbits were already dancing to the music of fiddles, flutes, and drums. The other half of the room was filled with low, round tables, laden with food and drink of all sorts and surrounded by comfortable, cushioned chairs. In the middle of each table stood a hollowed and carven pumpkin into which a candle had been set, illuminating the diners with an orange light. There seemed to be no particular order or etiquette to the party, and the arrival of the newcomers was not noticed amidst the general confusion.

"There's the Thain," Falco said to Trotter, directing his attention towards a pleasant-faced, middle-aged Hobbit who sat at a table at the far end of the room, engaged in an apparently engrossing discussion with a young Hobbit-lass. "Bucca of the Marish, but every one calls him the Thain, or sometimes The Buck."

At that moment, Folco appeared at their side, popping suddenly out of the crowd of Hobbits. He looked pleased with himself, and beamed at the sight of Trotter and his companions.

"The Thain awaits you," he said, "And he's quite interested to hear your story – loves stories, the old dear! I suspect you'll be too busy talking all night to do much else, but do try the blueberry scones if you get a chance, and grab yourself a dance or two!"

But Trotter found he had no appetite, nor any desire for dancing; the party around him reminded him of the danger drawing near from the north, and the urgency of his errand. He shuddered at the thought of the Witch-King's power reaching into the innocent heart of the Shire. But he concealed his feeling as well as he could, not wanting to alarm his companions or spoil their enjoyment of what could be their last safe resting place for a long time.

"Don't wait for me!" he said with a smile to Anna and Beleg, "No one can celebrate like a Hobbit - so enjoy the party!"

"Don't worry!" Falco called after him as he turned away, "We'll take care of that!"

Trotter waved at him and began to thread his way through the laughing, dancing, busily eating crowd. He was greeted somewhat tipsily by various Hobbits, and one old gammer hung a wreath of woven autumn leaves about his neck. As he approached the Thain's table, he had a chance to examine the head of the Oldbuck family in more detail.

The Thain was fairly short, even for a Hobbit, but it was obvious that weakness was not in his blood. His face was lined with deep creases, of laughter more than of sorrow or age, and patience was written on his brow as well as wisdom of a deep and quiet kind. His curly hair was entirely grey, but his eyes were sharp and keen, and he seemed aware of everything around him without so much as looking away from the girl he was talking to. She, in contrast, was young, smooth-faced and brown-limbed, with a wide smile that flashed continuously, like light that spills through a door that is repeatedly opened and closed. Their conversation died as they watched Trotter draw near, abandoning their laughter to stare curiously at the stranger.

Trotter did not know himself how he looked in their eyes, for he could not see himself and would likely not have noticed anything special if he had. But he had changed since his sudden departure from Bree. Three weeks of travelling had left their mark on him; he had always been fairly tall (for a Hobbit), but he was thinner now than he had been and stronger, and though he carried no weapon at the moment he had the look about him of someone accustomed to wearing a blade. The scar on his neck had healed badly and stood out starkly against his skin. His sorrow and his errand rode heavily upon his shoulders. And he had drunk of the wine of the Elves and heard their singing in the wild hills, which can leave no mortal unchanged. What the Thain saw was a Hobbit, yes, but a strange Hobbit with a light in his eyes and purpose in his steps.

Trotter stopped next to the table and bowed deeply. "Greetings to the Thain of the Oldbucks!" he said, "From Trotter Calacolindo the messenger of the King!"

"I return the greeting," the Thain replied, "And welcome you at my table. Will you not sit? You must be hungry after your travels. June," he said, turning briefly to the young Hobbit sitting beside him, "Leave us for a while please, daughter." He smiled gently at her and she hopped obediently away, but not without casting a furtive glance at Trotter, who did not notice.

Trotter bowed once more and sat down next to the Thain. He declined the older Hobbit's offer of food, but accepted a mug of ale with pleasure.

"We have much to speak of," he said softly, "And I have little time to remain here."

"My nephew tells me you have come from Norbury," the Thain said, "With news that concerns the Shire. I am very interested in what you have to say. We have had troubles here lately, and rumours of darker troubles in the outside lands have come to us. Our allegiance is to the King, and we remain loyal to him; but Hobbits are easily forgotten among the councils of Men, and I am anxious to ensure the well-being of the Shire. What have you to say?"

"Very little that is pleasant," Trotter admitted, "I come from one of the very councils you refer to – the Last Council, as it was called by King Arvedui. The Witch-King has grown powerful once more, too powerful for the failing strength of the North Kingdom. An alliance has been bound of Men and Elves and Dwarves to stand against the dark tide coming from Carn Dûm, and yet even with the combined efforts of the three peoples there is but little chance of victory. The roads east and south are drowned in shadow, and Arnor can count on no further help. Yet the King and his councillors did not wish to give up hope, and so they have sent me with my companions to find a way to Gondor, the South Kingdom which reigns still in the full height of its power, and to bring help to Arnor in its precarious struggle with the Enemy. I was also instructed to speak to the Hobbits, and ask for aid on behalf of the King, in the form of supplies or soldiers. My errand is secret, and I bid you to speak of it to no one; but I am a Hobbit, and I could not pass the Shire without giving due warning, for if Arnor falls this land will be open to attack from the north and east. "

"I thank you for that thought, at least," said the Thain, "Though your news is dark indeed! And yet it is not so great a surprise to me as you think. This hall is on the marches of the Shire, and news still comes to us from the outer lands. The Old Forest stirs across the river and strange creatures wake to life in the marshes in the south. But this is worse than I had feared … I will send messengers to The Took this very night, if I can, and to Michel Delving as well, for the Shire must be alerted. But tell me now of this council, and leave nothing out, I beg you!"

So Trotter recounted in detail what had been said at the Last Council, and told of the darkening of Bree and the messengers who had not reached Rivendell, and his own tale, starting with Nyéra and flowing on until Fornost, though he left out Arneniel and her message. And he spoke also of the storm that had come upon them, and his fear that the Witch-King knew already of their errand.

"As to the last," the Thain said after Trotter had finished, "I fear there is little doubt that the Dark Lord knows already of your purpose. I wonder now if the road you have chosen is truly the best one. If he knows your route, you are in much danger, and it may be that you will not reach Gondor in time, or ever, or that that kingdom cannot give the help you hope for. But that is no reason to despair! The wild lands are wide and unknown even to the Witch-King. Go swiftly and secretly, if you wish to continue, and he will not find you, for even his spies cannot be everywhere. But in that case you cannot tarry here. The longer you delay the slimmer will grow your chances. When do you wish to depart?"

"Tomorrow morning at best," said Trotter, "But I am not certain which route is the wisest. We purposed to go on foot south until Deephallow and then continue on through the wilds to Sarn Ford. But now you tell me that the marshes have grown dangerous, and they bar our path. To follow the East Road and then turn south at Waymoot is a longer road that I would wish, but I will take it if there is no alternative."

"There is no need," the Thain said, shaking his head, "You can go by boat. I will send with you some of my people – no doubt Falco and Folco would be delighted to lend their help in this matter! – and they will guide you to Sarn Ford. The river splits into many shallow streams, some of them flowing into the marshes, but it is still navigable if you are careful. From there you must go on foot. But I advise you to keep off the South Road!"

"Then your advice is the same as my own council," said Trotter, "We had planned to cross the plains, taking the straight route until the Gap in the Misty Mountains, but staying off the roads."

"Good!" said the Thain, "Then I wish you speed and good luck on your journey. But come! Let us speak of other matters for a while. I am eager for news from Bree. Are you acquainted with the Eastbucks, by any chance?"

The night drew on as the conversation continued in a lighter vein. Both Hobbits were engrossed in their talk, noticing little of the events around them (though Trotter did at one point catch sight of Anna and Falco, dancing a very lively number). And so neither of the speakers noticed the curly head of June Oldbuck peeking out from beneath the neighbouring table, and eavesdropping on every word that was said.

Colours twirled about Anna's head as Falco spun her in a circle, and she laughed giddily. The fiddles squealed gaily in her ears in perfect harmony with their flying feet, and the Hobbit's wide grin could not have been a more appropriate accompaniment. The music continued, and they spun faster and faster, not noticing that the other dancers had dropped out and were watching them, clapping along in encouragement. Anna was aware only of the world whirling around her and the throbbing music that sent her flying out of her clumsy body onto the paths of joy.

With a flourish, the song ended, and they slid to a halt, staring at each other with glowing eyes as they panted for breath. The surrounding Hobbits broke into applause and wild cheering. Falco bowed to their audience graciously, and Anna followed suit (deciding not to try for a curtsy this time).

"Thank you most kindly," said Falco breathlessly, "We are honoured, to be sure …" His voice was drowned out as the music started up again and the partygoers laughed, hurrying back to the dance floor.

"Shall we take a rest?" Anna asked. She was tired, though Falco seemed as energetic as ever.

"Certainly!" he replied, "Let us go outside … there is nothing more beautiful than the moonlight on the Brandywine River, with the forest waving across the water and the stars bright in the sky! At least," he added with a wink at her, "Almost nothing more beautiful."

Anna smiled as he grabbed her hand, and they hurried through the shifting crowd out of the Great Room and back into the corridor. She looked around briefly for Beleg, but did not see him, and dismissed him from her mind. They trotted lightly through the empty halls, Anna listening while Falco explained the uses of various chambers and pointed out family heirlooms. In a few minutes they had reached the Dock Door again, and stepped out into the chilly night.

Anna took a deep breath, the fresh air cool against her hot skin, and they strolled slowly away from the light spilling out of Buck Hall towards the dark river. They walked down beside the dock on the grassy riverbank and stopped, looking across at the Old Forest on the other side.*** The trees loomed tall against the sky, blocking out the eastern stars, and the soft sound of running water muted the music floating distantly to their ears.

"It's lovely," Anna said finally, "Like all of the Shire."

"Lovely," Falco agreed, though Anna had the feeling he was not referring to his homeland. He paused a minute, then asked, "Do you like it here?"

"I love it," Anna said honestly, "It's not like the other places I've been … it's like a different world, all by itself in the middle of the big dark one. I can't imagine trouble or danger or hatred in the Shire. It must be wonderful to live here! To be surrounded by smiles and laughter and music everyday, and to see the little hills and woods and the little people all around. You don't know how lucky you are."

"I think I do," Falco said, "Although even the best of places can be bettered. Yes, the Shire is lovely and happy and safe. It's too bad you are only passing through."

"Yes," Anna agreed. Now that she had seen the Shire, she truly did believe that she could be happy here, and that she need not search any further for peace. But long miles still lay ahead of her, and she could not be certain she would ever return to the land of the Hobbits. She had a task … or at least, she was following Trotter on his task.

"Why are you following him?" Falco asked, and Anna jumped, wondering if he had read her mind. "What binds you to Trotter?" the Hobbit asked, not noticing her surprise.

"He's my friend," she answered simply.

"So you will go with him across all the leagues of Eriador? You will leave behind safety and peace for another's quest?" He hesitated a moment, then hurried on. "You would not like to stay here? He can go to Tharbad or wherever his heart leads him, but he may return in the end to the Shire, and you will see him again. Would you not like to stay?"

Anna opened her mouth, but no sound came out. To stay in the Shire … the idea had not occurred to her. She had not considered parting from Trotter since they had ridden out of Bree together. But after all, why not? She was not bound to him. She loved him, yes, and he loved her as well, but that did not mean she had to wander over all of Middle Earth with him. There was love enough in the Shire for her as well. And he would understand – he would not ask her to come if she chose not to. All she had to say was yes. And yet … she could not say the word. She felt somehow that if she left Trotter now all the happiness she had found in the last two weeks would disappear, that it came from him and was given by him originally, and if she deserted him now she would prove herself unworthy of the friendship she craved. She could not bear the thought of him, struggling on alone to Gondor in the face of all dangers, while she sat safely in the Shire, the land of his own people, which he left behind in order to save it. And yet another thought whispered in her breast, but she would not listen to it; it was too new, too frightening in its unfamiliarity.

So she stood there in indecision, torn between two choices, unable to answer, until someone else spoke for her.

"How touching," came Beleg's voice from out of the darkness, "Is this an attempt at seduction or a covert love-affair? In either case there is a distinct note of betrayal in it."

Anna yelped, leaping into the air in surprise, and Falco twisted toward the sound of the Elfit's voice.

"Where are you?" he asked angrily, "Show yourself!"

A shadow rose up from the planks of the dock, and stepping forward into the stray light falling from the open door, revealed itself as the lithe figure of Beleg. He leaped lightly from the dock, landing on the bank next to it, and leaned nonchalantly against the wooden structure, staring unblinkingly at Falco and Anna.

"Eavesdropping, I see?" Falco said hotly, "What a noble occupation!"

"Not at all," Beleg replied, unperturbed, "I came out hours ago to look at the trees, and was sitting peacefully on the dock listening to the river when my blissful reverie was disturbed by the most disgusting display of shameless courting I have ever been privileged to witness. Really, what were you going to ask next – whether she would like to see your bedchamber?"

"Beleg!" Anna snapped. She was blushing furiously, and hoped it wasn't too obvious in the darkness of the night. "This is none of your business!"

"Isn't it?" he retorted, losing some of his cool, "And you, about to leave Trotter right before the darkest part of the road, when he might actually need you? So this is your idea of friendship!"

Anna clenched her fists and raised her chin, but she could not help feeling guilty; she really had been thinking of letting Trotter go on without her.

"And you think you know what friendship is?" Falco asked, scowling, "Spying on people in the night? Mocking your host, to whom you should be grateful for your bed and board!"

Beleg stepped towards Falco, looking down at the shorter Hobbit with narrowed eyes.

"I owe you nothing," he said coldly, "Fool of a Hobbit! You think I should be grateful to you? I have travelled in lands and faced horrors your puny mind cannot imagine, and you would gibber with fear at the very sight of them. And if Trotter and I fail on our mission now the Shire will be swept away by a shadow darker than anything you can comprehend. So have a care, Halfling!" And so menacing did he look with his glittering stare that Falco really did take a reflexive step backwards.

"Beleg!" Anna cried, her ears ringing with sudden fury, "Stop it! You have no right to go around yelling at people and insulting them and scaring them just because … just because you're jealous!"

"What?" the Elfit hissed, rounding on her like a whip cracking.

"Yes, jealous!" Anna repeated, "You! Jealous because everyone else is enjoying themselves while you sit here and brood like a child, and jealous of me because I …" but she trailed off, for Beleg was laughing.

"Oh, heavens!" he said, gasping for breath, "Jealous of the precious Manling! What a gem you are, Anna! And you have so much that is worth envying, don't you?"

"Yes," said Anna icily over his laughter, "I have a heart."

Beleg stopped chuckling and stared at her calculatingly. Then the familiar mocking smile flickered over his face and he bowed stiffly.

"Ah," he said, "But you are betraying it."

And without another word he turned his back on them and walked unhurriedly back into Buck Hall, leaving Anna at a complete loss.

Trotter was already in their chamber when Beleg slipped in through the door, and the Elfit saw him at once, of course. For a moment he thought Trotter was asleep, though the lamp was lit, for the Hobbit was sitting motionless on one of the beds, propped against the headboard. But he turned his head at the arrival of his friend, and Beleg saw that his eyes were wide and awake. He closed the door quietly behind him and sat down cross-legged on a second bed, facing Trotter, who seemed lost in thought. But after a moment he stirred, and looked at the Elfit.

"Hello … oh," he said.

"What? Is there a problem?" Beleg asked.

"You've been arguing with Anna again, haven't you?" Trotter remarked, "You have that look."

"I wouldn't really call it arguing," Beleg said drily, "Something along the lines of 'the second Battle of Unnumbered Tears' would be more accurate."

Trotter rolled his eyes but made no comment. "I hope you at least managed to enjoy yourself at the feast," he said.

"Actually," Beleg grinned, "I did meet this marvellous little hobbit-maid. Slender as an Elf, and what's more, a redhead."

Trotter stared at him in horror.

"Oh, come on," Beleg groaned, his grin disappearing, "I was only jesting. I went outside and stared at the forest the whole time. Are you satisfied now?"

Trotter's expression did not change. But then after a moment his face softened and he looked down at his lap.

Beleg realized then that Trotter was holding something in his hands. He tilted his head to get a better view, and when Trotter held up the object he saw that it was a short scabbard, black and green and adorned with golden embroidery in the shape of leaves.

"What is it?" he asked, curious as to where Trotter had found a sheath for Nyéra so quickly.

"The scabbard of Marcho Fallohide," Trotter answered, "One of the two brothers who founded the Shire many years ago. It was kept after his death and passed through generations of Hobbits until the present day. The Thain gave it to me after the feast – I mentioned that I had lost the scabbard to Nyéra. And with it came a final piece of advice, a private last council, so to speak." He stopped talking, staring with wrinkled brow at the scabbard.

"What did he say?" Beleg asked after a minute. Trotter looked up at him.

"He said to me, 'I believe that Arnor will stand by its own strength or not at all. So I will send messengers throughout the Shire in a call to arms, a call to war. But we are a peaceful people, and I doubt that many will answer the call without someone to unite and lead them. Therefore I ask you now: go not to Gondor for aid, but turn to your own people and lead them against the darkness with the taller races. We will join the muster, and this last bit of strength may in the end be more crucial than all the armies of the south, should they come too late.' And then he gave me this scabbard, which once held the sword of the first leader of the Hobbits."

Beleg sighed. "My friend," he said, "I guess your thoughts. The Shire is a land unmatched among all those I have seen. But we cannot tarry here, no matter how much your heart wishes it."

"I know," Trotter said, looking down at his hands, "But it is not so simple anymore. If we go to Gondor but come too late, all will be lost. But if we stay, and lead the Shire to battle, might it not turn the tide against the Witch-King? Or would we merely be leading the Shire-Hobbits to a hopeless slaughter?"

Beleg was silent for a minute, frowning into the air. He seemed to be looking far away into the deep wells of the past, and his eyes were shadowed. Then he took a deep silent breath as if gathering strength to jump some inhuman hurdle.

"Trotter," he said, "Let me tell you a tale. Many years ago, I dwelt for a time in the Shire, in the north beneath the Hills of Evendim. I was much younger then, and I had left Lindon for a time to be with my father, who was from the west marches of this land. He was bold and adventurous, my father, unlike most Hobbits, and had many dealings with the Elves, which is how he met my mother long ago. On one occasion I went with him into the Hills, and there were Elves with us on that road. But the Twilight Hills even then were not safe, for already the Witch-King spread out his shadow, and one night we were attacked by a pack of werewolves, or Wargs as some call them. Their king was with them. His underlings call him Drekgreth – I heard them praise him with this name! – but the Elves name him Delcarch, the Fang of Horror. He has upon his left paw a claw forged of mithril stolen from the Dwarves, and nothing can withstand it. It cut down my father, and it cut down all the Elves that were with us. And when every one of our company had been slain but for me, the king of the Wargs turned his burning eyes upon me, and I felt sure that I looked into the face of Death. But he only howled with terrible laughter, and his fangs glistened. And he said to me:

"'Run, little Elfling! I will not kill you! More miserable will be your fate in life than in death. Go back to your puny folk and dwell bitterly on your loneliness!'

"All his followers laughed then, and they left me there by the body of my father, whose fair face had been rent by the Claw and made terrible and pitiable. I swore there a vow of revenge, and cursed Delcarch as he left me choking in my shame and anger. Great and terrible is the king of werewolves, and yet he is but a small cog in the machinery of the Witch-King. And so I tell you now, Trotter, that I do not believe the Shire can save Arnor, nay, not even in alliance with the Elves and the Dwarves and the Men of this land. For the Witch-King is larger and blacker than all these together." And then he turned from his friend and spoke no further word that night.

Trotter stood silently on the bank of the Brandywine the following morning, wrapped in his shadow-cloak and with Nyéra in its scabbard slung onto his back. Dawn was just breaking. Both Anna and Beleg were with him, and though none of them spoke, each felt relieved somehow, as if the last hurdle had been cleared and they could now face the future together with certainty with one spirit. They watched as the final provisions were loaded into the boats – the same two they had travelled down the Brandywine on – and climbed in swiftly themselves, joining Falco and Folco, who had agreed gladly to take them to Sarn Ford. Trotter sat next to Folco in the second boat now, while Anna and Beleg took up with Falco in front. A few Hobbits had tumbled sleepily out of bed to say farewell to the strangers who had come and gone so quickly, and as the twins cast off the ropes, Trotter looked back and waved slightly.

The boats slid into the current and drifted swiftly away from Buck Hall, and the great burrow was almost out of sight when the Thain came running out of the Dock Door and dashed to the end of the dock, almost falling into the river in his hurry. He cupped both hands around his mouth and shouted towards them.

"June!" he yelled, "June!"

Suddenly the packs piled upon the floor of boat heaved with a spasmodic movement, and Trotter saw with a cry of dismay that the bright young face of June Oldbuck was peering out at him from among the baggage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Oldbucks: Later became known as the Brandybucks when Gorhendad Oldbuck moved across the Brandywine and built Brandy Hall in S.R. 740. Nyáreonië takes place in S.R. 373 (Tale of Years Third Age 1974). At this time the Hobbits were still subjects of the King, but their affairs were ruled by local chieftains such as the Took and the Thain. The Thain was at this time the leader of the Oldbuck (Brandybuck) family, and only later handed over the title to the Tooks when this family was chosen to govern the Shire (along with the mayor in Michel Delving) in later years after the fall of the North Kingdom. When the Oldbucks settled the land across the Brandywine, the head of that family took the title of the Master of Buckland.
> 
> Norbury: Shire name for Fornost
> 
> Before the Hedge was planted, the trees of the Old Forest reached all the way to the bank of the Brandywine and trailed their branches in its waters.


	11. The Stowaway's Bow

"Turn back the boat!" Trotter cried to Folco, "Turn back now!"

Folco stared in frozen surprise at his cousin, who seemed undisturbed by the commotion she was causing. June was sitting cross-legged, still half-concealed beneath the pile of packs on the boat's floor. She wore trousers and a shirt, her curly hair caught into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, and there was a short-bow on her back. She ignored Folco, but stared at Trotter defiantly, though a slight blush on her cheeks betrayed her excitement. Trotter grimaced in frustration.

"It's too late," June said, "You can't go back now! You have to take me!" Trotter ignored her and turned back to his companion.

"Folco!" he said urgently, grabbing one of the paddles, "We have to turn back! She can't come with us!" A sense of urgency filled him – the banks on either side rushed passed quickly as the Brandywine pulled them farther and farther away from the Shire.

Folco snapped to attention and grasped the other paddle, but his hands slowed and stilled. He stared back north towards Buck Hall, which was already disappearing around the bend of the river.

"It's too late!" he cried, "We've hit the Withywindle! Man the oar, Trotter, or we'll be overturned!"

At that moment, the little boat was caught in a sudden swirl in the current, and began to spin swiftly in the water. Trotter clutched at the wooden side; June with a yelp was rolled from her seat. The sky spun around him in a whirl of blue and the water rushed loudly, but he managed to catch a paddle and began to pull against the strength of the river as best as he could.

"What's happening?" he shouted to Folco, who was labouring alongside him.

"The Withywindle runs into the Brandywine here!" the other Hobbit shouted back, "It's enchanted … sometimes it draws boats up into the forest, or sends them hurtling downriver!"

"Let's hope for the second," Trotter muttered, pushing grimly at the oar. The boat began to steady, no longer spinning, but he was too busy trying to control the bucking vessel to notice where the river had taken them. The colour of the water was odd; mixed in with the usual brown of the Brandywine was a swirling, green-tinted current – the stream of the Withywindle.

Suddenly, June gasped and pointed ahead of them. She was holding precariously onto the bow of the ship, leaning forward and staring down the river.

"Oh!" she said, "Oh, look! Falco!"

Trotter craned his neck to follow June's trembling finger, and he nearly dropped his paddle in shock.

The Brandywine was wide here, where the Withywindle flowed into it from the Old Forest and the waters tumbled and played at their own will. On the east bank sparse trees grew on the plain, but on the west the Overbourn Marshes lay grey and silent, a twisting maze of shallow water and shifting earth. The Marshes had once been a giant, shallow lake, famed for the giant lily pads that could grow to the size of a barn on its surface. In ancient days huge white flowers had covered the lake, filling the air with a delicious scent. But over the years dark things had slithered into the mire and the plants had aged, and soil had built up on them into which reeds and cattails put their roots, forming a multitude of unstable floating islands. Channels led from the river into the tall rustling reeds, opening and closing sometimes before a watcher's very eyes, like an ever-changing labyrinth.

Falco's boat had been caught in the wayward Withywindle's current in the same way as theirs had, but instead of spinning it in dizzying circles, it pushed them irresistibly into the lee of the marshes. Now, as Trotter watched, it was plain to him that the other boat was being drawn into the marshes themselves; a large channel had opened up and the little wooden vessel sped helplessly towards it, despite the frantic efforts of its crew.

"Quick!" Trotter said, forgetting all else, "We have to follow before we lose sight of them!"

"What?" Folco gasped, "Into the marshes? We'll never come out! We should go back for help!"

"No time!" Trotter replied, "We can't go back up the river! They'll be lost!" He began to paddle determinedly after the other boat, and the same current that had hindered them before helped them now. With no further argument, Folco joined his efforts, and they sped after their friends. Falco's boat had already passed beyond the first stand of reeds, but the combined exertions of its three passengers had managed to slow its progress somewhat.

Sweat ran into Trotter's eyes and his arms began to ache, but he only worked harder, driving the boat as fast as he could. He bit his lip, for it was obvious that the channel into which they were heading had grown smaller; the floating arms on either side of it were enclosing them in a greedy embrace. Dimly he saw Anna standing up, teetering uncertainly in the small vessel, now only a few yards ahead. She threw something over to them; Trotter saw the end of a rope thud lightly against the wooden floor next to him.

"Catch it!" he heard Anna call.

June caught hold of the rope and tied it with a firm knot to their own boat. Then the final few yards shot by and they burst into the narrow stream in the marshes, their built-up momentum driving them past their companions. The rope stretched once but held, and the two boats drew close to each other once more.

A sudden hush fell over the air. Trotter put down his paddle and looked up, dreadfully certain of what he would see. He could no longer hear the rushing of the Brandywine; only the rustling of reeds in the breeze came to his ears. And no matter where he looked, only the rustling reeds met his eyes. The channel they had come through had closed behind them. They were lost in the Marshes.

"Heavens!" Trotter heard Folco whisper beside him. The Hobbit's face was pale and he stared with wide eyes around him. Uneasily, Trotter recalled that the Thain had said something about strange creatures living in the marshes. What monsters might await them here? But everything was still except for the whispering cattails. He glanced over the side of the boat, but that told him nothing – the water was dark brown, and he could not guess its depth. He looked over at the other boat, now floating motionless adjacent to them. Beleg stood in the middle on the single wooden bench, gazing at their surroundings, bright-eyed and undaunted. His cloak ruffled in the wind dramatically, making him seem majestic, like a figure from an ancient fairy-tale. After a moment he leaped back down lightly, the boat not so much as wobbling at his movement.

"No use," he said, "I can't see a thing." He sat down on the floor next to Anna. Falco was kneeling by the side of the boat, clutching the wood with white-knuckled hands. He stared at Trotter, licking his lips.

"What are we going to do?" he asked.

Everyone looked at Trotter and his stomach turned. Five pairs of eyes watched him steadily, five living souls, and he wondered nervously if he could bear up their weight, if he could lead them and end with five as he had begun. He swallowed.

"Well, we can't stay here," he said as cheerfully as he could, "We should head south and east, I believe, if we want to meet with the river again. Steering by the sun, we should be able to keep a fairly straight path parallel to the Brandywine until we find another channel. Then we can row out again. At least this way we don't have to deal with the dangerous currents for a while, and certainly no one will see us here! Once we get back on the right road we'll be at Sarn Ford quickly enough, where we'll continue on foot. From there you and Folco can take the road back to the Shire, Falco – and take June with you." He gazed piercingly at the girl, who looked nervous but stared back stubbornly.

"I'm not going back with them," she said.

"You most certainly are," Trotter replied angrily, "You are not coming to Gondor, and that's that. If you will not return willingly to the Shire, you will be tied and sent back with your cousins."

"You can't do that," June said, red-faced.

Trotter only looked at her darkly, and she fell silent and did not meet his gaze. For a moment no one spoke. Then Trotter turned back to Falco and Beleg in the other boat.

"I suggest we get started!" he said, "We are facing south, so we must go ahead and to the left, if at all possible."  
Obeying him silently, they took their oars and began to paddle slowly and carefully through the marshes. It was difficult and frustrating work, for often they drifted past channels without seeing them, or thought they had come upon a left-bearing stream only to find that it was a dead-end, or curved back to the west. Several times they were stranded in the shallows; it was impossible to tell where the water was deep and where not. In these cases only with much pushing and pulling did they manage to free the boat from the clinging mud, and soon they were all liberally splattered with brown ooze.

Nowhere did they catch any hint of the sound of the Brandywine, and they soon grew very tired of the monotonous music of the grey-green rushes. They came to dislike the water as well, and avoided its touch, for it had a strange slippery feel, as if covered with slime or oil. The air seemed hotter and thicker, stuffier somehow, as if they were enclosed in a giant room with no doors or windows. The twins twitched nervously at every stray sound, and even when they ate they could not be comforted, lapsing into greater fear and nervousness as time went by. Anna sat silently in the stern of her boat, sunk into a strange melancholy, though now and then she whistled in perfect imitation of various kinds of birds. She listened then, but no bird ever answered, and she fell silent again.

Beleg seemed tireless, paddling and talking with equal ease. Often he stood up in the boat and gazed around, but he always shook his head in the end and sat back down. He kept up a lively conversation with Trotter, and the two of them attempted to cheer up their companions by whatever means possible. June said nothing, only sat mutinously sulking upon the wooden floor, but her eyes never left Trotter's face.

In fact, it was beginning to annoy him.

"If you think staring at me will convince me to take you to Gondor, you are far from right," he said finally, when the sun was already setting in the evening. They had not come any closer to escaping the Marshes, and everyone was in a bad mood.

"You are not taking me anywhere," June said, "I go where I please."

Trotter repressed an urge to groan. "Why did you have to get into the boat?" he said, "Are you completely mad?"

"Not completely," she said, grinning suddenly, "But mostly, yes."

"I should've guessed …"

"I really am going to come with you," June said, "You can't stop me."

Trotter said nothing.

"Don't you want to know why?" June asked, a bit angrily.

"Not really," Trotter said, "Actually, the question doesn't spark the slightest bit of interest."

Beleg looked over from the other boat. "Careful, Trotter!" he laughed, "You're starting to talk like me!"

Trotter glared at the Elfit. "Keep to your own boat!" he said, "We are trying to have a conversation over here." He sighed and turned back to June. "Yes, suppose you can tell me your reasons for stowing away, if you must. But it had better be a good story, or I won't listen at all."

"Well …" June began, "I heard you talking to my father, and everything you said. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop … well, all right, actually I was trying to eavesdrop. But you didn't notice me, did you?" She waited until Trotter nodded before continuing, satisfied. "It all sounded so awful. I kept thinking, Can't I do something to help? It seemed such a waste, to stay there useless in the Shire when I could be doing something against the Witch-King. He's so … evil. Somebody has to stop him. And well, I'm probably not the right person for that …"

"Definitely," Trotter corrected.

"… all right, definitely, but I still want to help somehow. So I decided to go to Gondor with you. Ordinary people have to do their part too, after all. I know you think I'm useless and that I'll be a burden – just because I'm a girl, of course – but you should give me a chance anyway. And you might need me. I can shoot, and I know lots of things about plants." She flourished her short bow as if to prove her point.

"Really?" Trotter said with false interest, "Well, that's just wonderful. It seems all our problems are solved."

June scowled. "You're being sarcastic," she said, "That's rude. Don't be so quick to judge – not everything is what it seems."

Trotter started at the familiar words. His father had often told him the same … but did the advice really apply in this case? He looked at June, more carefully this time. His heart sank. She was young, even younger than he was, and he doubted she had ever been outside of the Shire. But then, how often had he been out of Bree before all this started? Was it really fair to hold her inexperience against her? On the other hand, was it fair to allow her to rush into a situation she knew nothing about?

Responsibility, he decided, was a mixed blessing.

"Don't be angry at me for stowing away," June asked, a bit uncertainly. He almost began to feel sorry for her, to his own horror. "And … think about letting me come. If you don't want me to, I probably can't make you, but think about it anyway. Think about it from my point of view."

Her point of view. A vague feeling of surprise sparked in him. But after all, why not? Maybe she was headstrong, but she was obviously brave as well, bold and determined. Adding one more person to their company would not raise their chances of being noticed by the Enemy very much, especially when that person was as small and inconspicuous as a Hobbit girl. In fact, it might help disguise them – such a group could easily be mistaken for refugees fleeing the war, should anyone notice them at all. And could he really force her to turn back?

Still, his doubts would not let him rest. Something told him that June should not come with them, that she should not be with them at this very moment, and the consequences of her presence would be unpleasant.

"All right," he said cautiously, "I'll think about it. But don't count on me changing my mind."

A smile lit up June's face, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Excellent!" she said, "I can't wait until we land again – I've never been to the plains before!"

"Now wait a minute …" Trotter frowned, "I said I'd think about it, not that I have decided to let you come."

"But you will, won't you? After all, that is the wisest decision, under the circumstances …"

Trotter rolled his eyes. He was tired and he didn't feel like arguing with this presumptuous girl-child anymore. He glanced over at Anna, hoping to catch her eye, but she and Beleg were sitting at the far end of their boat, whispering to each other. He wondered what the conversation was about, but decided to leave it be. At least they weren't at each other's throats anymore.

Trotter lay back in the boat, staring up at the star-studded night sky. There was the Milk Road, spread like a flaming white arm over the velvet blackness. He picked out the Sickle and the belt of Menelvagor, the Dragon and the Wheel. When he had been a young Hobbit-lad, his father had told him the stories behind the stars … they had lain together on the grass of Bree-hill and pointed out all the constellations they knew, plus new ones they invented themselves.

With a start, he realized he was homesick. The Shire had reminded him what ordinary life was like, and he missed it. The Marshes were eerie in the night, in glaring contrast to the liveliness of Buck Hall. Sighing, he pushed away the feeling and tried to doze …

 

Anna watched Beleg out of the corner of her eye. The brilliant stars outlined his profile starkly, his eyes shining as if they were two of Varda's lights themselves. He had settled down next to her in the stern of their boat minutes ago, but had not spoken or even looked at her yet. She was determined that she would not speak first, but the silence was began to grate on her nerves. She wondered what he wanted. Maybe he was merely trying to put her on edge; it would be rather typical of him. Unfortunately, he was succeeding. She fidgeted slightly, then forced herself to sit still.

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm sitting here, and if I am merely trying to put you on edge, aren't you?" Beleg asked, leaning his head back against the side of the boat.

"Exactly," Anna said, "And I hope you will tell me, but I probably shouldn't count on that."

"Now this is extremely strange. I had a feeling you were going to say precisely that."

"Maybe you are a mind-reader," Anna said, "But if so, you will have to prove it by reading my mind before I speak aloud."

Beleg chuckled. "Point taken," he said, "But before this deteriorates into another bitter argument, there's something I'd like to say." His voice was quite calm, but Anna felt subconsciously that there was tension beneath the ice. She waited curiously. "I am extremely sorry for accusing you of wanting to desert us," Beleg said, "It was uncalled for, and I'm afraid I overreacted badly. I know perfectly well that no one in the world means more to you than Trotter, and that you would never willingly leave him – no more would I. I never thought you would, either, only I was, well, being myself in the worst way." He grinned suddenly, white teeth flashing. "You have every reason to despise me, and you were quite right – I don't have a heart, or if I do, it would take a full team of Dwarves to dig it out."

"Beleg," Anna said wonderingly, "I don't think I've ever heard you speak for such a long time without a single insult to someone or other." She frowned suddenly into the night. "You aren't ill, are you? I do not know much about sicknesses of the brain …"

Beleg stifled his laughter. "No, my mind is not feverish," he said, "But whether or not I am ill is another question. Still, I am in no hurry to die, so you may keep your healing hands to yourself. Oh, I suppose that was another insult?"

"It was too good to last," Anna said grimly.

Beleg was silent for a moment. She watched him carefully, but he was not looking at her. His gaze was directed at the sky. His hands twitched unnoticed on his drawn-up knees. She found herself remembering what his hands had felt like under hers when they had ridden together in the storm.

What was wrong with her? Her head felt light and her blood rushed strangely in her ears. She looked quickly at the dull water; it was cold and dark. Cold … She wanted to say something, but couldn't decide what. He had apologized to her, of all things – now what was she supposed to do?

"I …" both she and Beleg said at the same time. Anna grinned at the surprised look on the Elfit's face.

"You first," she said, "And I'm warning you, for every insult I will dunk you and your spotless white feminine blouse into the muddiest shoal I can find."

"I am not wearing a …" Beleg began heatedly. He stopped himself quickly, though, apparently unwilling to let her provoke him. "Anyway, returning to a mature topic of conversation – and that was not an insult! – I merely wanted to ask you again: who were you before you met Trotter? I told you both where I come from and who my parents are, and it is only fair that you return the favour sooner or later."

Anna scowled. "It is none of your business," she said coldly, "And I don't want to talk about it. I am not interested in what you think is fair or not; my life is my own, and so are my secrets."

"But your life is not your own any longer," Beleg insisted, "Perhaps when you were alone and cared for no one you were justified in keeping your secrets, but you have friends now. Trotter and I have a right to know the truth. You are our companion! It is troth, it is a matter of honour. The three of us are in this together."

"Honour!" Anna said, "You and your troth nonsense … the truth is, you're just nosy. Well, my business is my own! And your fancy ideas of honour have nothing to do with me!"

"Perhaps they should!" Beleg replied, "Do you want to stay what you have been all your life – an outcast? If you refuse to trust in people when they try to befriend you, then you have only yourself to blame!"

"Keep your judgements to yourself! What right do you have to judge me anyway? What do you care?"

"Well, I…" Beleg stopped, flushing. Then he muttered, "You … stubborn, half-witted …" He glimpsed her sudden movement, and yelped. "No, wait - !"

But it was too late. With as powerful a shove as she could muster, Anna had pushed him unceremoniously over the side of the boat, into the sludgy marsh-water. There was a loud splash, and both boats rocked. June and the twins yelped, and Trotter sat up, looking around wildly for the source of the noise.

"What happened?" he cried, standing up in the middle of his boat.

His question was answered a second later by the reappearance of Beleg, neck deep in the dark water and cursing like a Dwarf with his beard on fire. The Elfit shook his head, sending thick drops splattering against the boats. If he had ever truly worn a spotless white feminine blouse, those days were gone forever – he was now thoroughly drenched with liquid mud. His hair hung in limp tangles and brown water ran down his face – revealing an expression of frightening fury. Quick as a snake, he slipped to the side of Anna's boat, grabbed her arm, and tugged.

Anna braced herself against the wooden side, pulling back with all her strength. "Don't – you – !" she gasped, trying to loosen the Elfit's grip. Dimly, she saw Falco stumbling to help her out of the corner of her eye.

"Beleg!" Trotter shouted, too far away to do more than stare in mixed confusion and amusement, "Are you certain that's -?"

Without warning, Beleg's grip on Anna's arm slackened. He fell back suddenly into the water, clutching desperately at the side of the boat with both hands. His eyes opened wide as he stared up at Anna's face, mouth working silently. Then with a smothered cry, he disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

Anna leaned dangerously over the side, staring frantically into the black waves. Both boats were rocking wildly back in forth as waves crashes against them. Too many waves …

"Anna!" Trotter cried. He grabbed the rope connecting the boats and began to pull, drawing the little vessels closer to each other, "What did you say to him?" The Hobbit looked as if he were regretting that he had left his two companions together without his own calming presence – apparently their feud was far from over.

"Where did he go?" Falco asked nervously, peering into the water. The boats bumped together with a crack, still rolling from side to side, though the waves had begun to diminish.

"Oh, no," Trotter heard Anna whisper. She sat down suddenly, staring wide-eyed into space. But he didn't have time for that now. He scanned the surface of the water frantically. Where was Beleg? Surely the Elfit could swim … so why had he sunk? Or had he? It had been too dark to see, but Beleg had jerked under the water so quickly it hadn't looked natural. The Thain's words echoed unpleasantly in his mind: "…strange creatures wake to life in the marshes …"

He was just contemplating jumping into the water himself, though it would have done little good, when Beleg reappeared. The Elfit's head broke the water on the far side of Anna's boat; he grabbed the wall and pulled himself quickly over the edge, tumbling in a messy heap between the wooden benches. Anna yelped and fell backwards. Then she crawled closer and tried to turn Beleg over. He pushed her away, coughing up water.

"Beleg!" Anna said, "I -!"

"Quiet!" he snapped.

"But -!" He clapped his hand over her mouth, glaring fiercely. Then he glanced at Trotter meaningfully and jerked his head at the water.

Silence descended onto the marshes; but not total silence. The water was as dark and inscrutable as ever, but a strange swishing noise filled the air. It was soft, nearly inaudible – Trotter almost thought it was his imagination. He crept to the edge of the boat and watched the water, a dread suspicion growing in his mind.

They were floating in a broad south-leading channel. Tall reed-covered islands fenced the sides, but the water itself was wide here, almost a pond. The rushes bent gently in the wind. And as Trotter watched, the water roiled suddenly on their right. Something long and snake-like slipped past, raising tiny waves that broke against the boats. It was too dark to see clearly, but Trotter had a distinct impression of a long, slimy-scaled body, with spines rising at intervals from the back. The thing was at least five feet wide.

"What is that?" June whispered.

"Shhhh …" Trotter said, barely loud enough to be heard, "No one say anything. Maybe it will go away …"

The thing was certainly going, but whether it was moving away was a different question. The scaly hide kept disappearing and reappearing, ducking under the water and coming to the surface again. It glistened dully in the moonlight. Trotter wondered just how big it was. But it did not seem to have noticed them. He began to hope that it would pass them by, unmolested.

Suddenly, June squealed. "It sees us!" she said, "Look, its eye is glowing!" She leaped up, grabbing her bow and nocking an arrow. Then Trotter saw it too; a shiny spot on the dark hide. But that couldn't be an eye – it was in the middle of the thing's body.

"No!" he said, reaching for June, "Don't shoot! You'll only bring its attention to us!"

He was too slow. Before he could grab June's bow, she had loosed an arrow. To her credit, she was quite as good a shot as she claimed to be – but it stood them in bad stead this time. The arrow zipped through the air and struck the shining spot – and bounced off with a clang. The shining spot was not an eye, but a lighter scale that reflected the moonlight.

The snake-body shuddered suddenly, and before Trotter could blink, it had lifted out of the water. A huge head rose into the air, dripping with slime and mud, and shook itself with a rumbling roar. Two giant yellow eyes snapped open, focusing indiscriminately on the two tiny boats floating precariously before them.

"Water-dragon!" Beleg cried.

Trotter had never heard of a water-dragon before, and he wished desperately that he had never had cause to hear the name. It did look like a dragon, in fact, except that it had nothing fiery about it. Its body was serpent-like, long and muscular, and as it rose higher into the air its head was silhouetted against the sky. The head was diamond-shaped, with horny protrusions and spines running in an orderly line down its back. Horns grew in pairs on either side of its face, behind its small, flat ears.

June stood gaping in the middle of the boat, face to face with the dragon's yellow eyes, her bow forgotten in her hand. The eyes blinked, once, twice, then the mouth opened and hot, foul breath washed over them. June wavered, and Trotter thought she would faint and fall, but in the last second she caught herself.

"Watch out!" he shouted as the muscles on the water-dragon's scaly neck tensed. With a movement almost too quick to see, the huge jaws snapped, and only the wild rocking of the boat saved June, sending her crashing to the floor. Trotter pressed himself down as far away from the dragon as he could, Folco next to him; but the beast had seen them. It coiled again, opening its mouth wide, and for a moment Trotter was sure the last thing he would ever see was the moonlight glinting on yellow fangs. Then something flashed, and the dragon reared back, roaring in pain and anger. Beleg had shot an arrow into its mouth.

Trotter jumped up unsteadily, drawing Nyéra. But Beleg was quicker than him, and more agile; the Elfit leaped onto the dragon's head, his knife glittering in his hand.

"Beleg, you fool!" Anna shrieked, "Come back here!" She stumbled wildly back and forth, unable to find a stable footing as she tried to follow the Elfit. Falco pulled her back, and the two of them fell struggling to the bottom of the boat.

Beleg paid no attention; he was far too busy with the dragon. The creature began to shake its head this way and that in an attempt to dislodge its pesky rider. With lightning movements, it tossed back and forth, hurling its unwelcome passenger through the air. Its head swung to the left, and Beleg almost tumbled off, grabbing onto one slippery spine in the nick of time. He hung suspended by one hand for an instant, legs dangling in the air; then he swung himself gracefully back onto the grotesque head.

"Trotter!" he yelled, "Throw me the rope!"

Trotter wasn't certain what Beleg wanted the rope for, but he knew better than to question now. He picked up the remaining coil and, waiting for a lull in the dragon's frantic bucking, threw one end to the Elfit. Beleg caught it deftly and managed to tie it to the dragon's largest horn, in the centre of its skull.

"Tie …" Before he could finish his sentence, the dragon tossed its head once more, diving momentarily under the surface of the water. It emerged a moment later, with a sputtering Elfit still clinging to its hide. Beleg began to slip dangerously; the dragon's scales gave no sure hold to even his quick hands.

"Tie it to the boat!" Beleg yelled, voice cracking with strain.

"What!" Trotter shouted, wondering briefly what Beleg could be planning, but decided it would be wisest to comply. He tied the other end of the rope to their shaking boat.

Beleg sprawled on his stomach on the monster's head, embracing the horny skull with both arms. The beast, as if suspecting what was to come, bucked more determinedly than ever, but it could not dislodge the clinging weight. Steel glinted in the Elfit's hands; he had his knife in one and an arrow in the other. With a ruthless movement, he dug the knife into the dragon's left ear, and the arrow-point into its right. The water-dragon shrieked, a shivering cry that rang eerily through the marshes; then it jerked forward and began to swim.

Trotter fell back into the boat, bowled over by the sudden momentum. The rope tautened but held, and suddenly they were speeding away through the dark Marshes. Water rolled away in giant splashes on either side of the boat; he glanced behind to see Anna and Falco's boat being dragged along behind them, still tied to his own. Its two passengers clung to the wooden benches, their fear-filled eyes glinting as the boat was hurled from side to side. Trotter could see the dragon's scaly body stretched out beside the boats – he hoped fervently that a stray slap from the creature's tail would not overturn them.

He dragged himself forward, drenched to the bone. The wooden vessel was being swamped; but he had no time to worry about that. He stared up at Beleg, who was riding the water-dragon as if it were an everyday occurrence as normal as riding a horse. He had sat up and his wet hair was streaming away behind him like dark flames blown by the wind. The Elfit laughed giddily, and Trotter realized that he was steering the dragon. By digging his arrow further into the monster's right ear, he forced it to veer left; they were dashing south and east now, tearing through the Marshes far faster than they could ever have done under their own power.

The floating islands tipped and overturned as the giant body of the water-dragon hurled them out of its path. The channels grew wider about them, melting and merging. They were reshaping the Marshes.

Suddenly, he could hear a different noise over the splashing of the water around him. Folco appeared at his side in the bow; the Hobbit looked frightened half to death, but he shouted as calmly as he could. Beleg's reckless bravery had obviously made an impression on him, and he was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to look unconcerned.

"The Brandywine!" he yelled, "I hear the Brandywine!"

Sure enough, it was the sound of crashing water that Trotter heard – inordinately loud crashing water. A waterfall! The dragon was pulling them straight towards a cliff!

"Beleg!" he cried, "Beleg!" But the Elfit didn't hear him.

All of a sudden, the reed islands parted before them, and they hurtled out onto the Brandywine River. The far shore loomed, shrouded by trees. The dark water reflected the moon's light brightly, and Trotter could see what he had been expecting: fifty yards or so in front of them, a waterfall tumbled into nothingness. The moon glinted on the white foam … and the dragon was heading straight for the drop.

Beleg, too, had seen the fall and realized their danger immediately. "Trotter!" he cried, twisting his head backwards, "Cut the rope!"

"No!" Trotter said, unwilling to leave his friend stranded on the head of a mad dragon. But Beleg would have none of it; he pulled his knife from the water-dragon's ear and sliced through the rope.

With a jerk, the boats slowed and stopped, spinning in small circles where they floated. They were still being drawn towards the waterfall, but much more slowly now. The dragon paid not the least bit of notice to its lost baggage, driving on heedlessly and taking Beleg with it. The Elfit seemed to be trying to jump of his grotesque steed's back, but the creature moved so quickly that he was pressed flat against its slimy skin.

"Folco, paddle the boat to the eastern shore," Trotter directed, quickly shoving Nyéra back into its sheath and standing up.

"What are you doing?" the young Hobbit asked.

"Keeping my oath," Trotter said. Without another word, he dived into the river. And that movement saved his life. When his head broke the surface once more, the first thing he saw was the end of the water-dragon's tail, descending down onto the boat with a last vengeful blow. June shrieked and hurled herself away, just in time. The giant, scaly tail crashed down onto the boat, smashing it into matchwood and sending a man-high wave washing into all directions.

The wave rolled over Trotter's head, and for a moment he was lost under the black water. It was cold, but he hardly noticed. He struck out for the surface and came up gasping.

The dragon had passed on. Nothing remained of the boat except splintered bits of woods floating on the surface of the river. Trotter dog-paddled in the water, twisting around to look frantically in every direction. He caught sight of Anna and Falco's boat, unharmed but half-swamped. Then, a few feet away from him, June popped up, gasping and striking out blindly in the water.

"Swim to the shore!" he yelled to her, getting a mouthful of river-water. Without looking to see if she complied, he turned and began to swim with the current, towards the thunderous falls.

The water-dragon shrieked again with its chilling voice. Trotter's limbs froze and he stared up at the struggle taking place before him now. The water crashed indifferently over the drop, but the giant serpent had noticed the danger too late. It reared up, trying to avoid the fall. Beleg, finally gaining a moment to make his escape, began to slip down the dragon's back as quickly as he could, using it as a pathway away from the waterfall.

With a final mournful cry, the water-dragon shuddered; then it was pulled over the falls. Its head disappeared over the drop and its long body began to follow rapidly. The writhing cylinder raised out of the water, dripping and shuddering in expectation of death. Trotter watched in an agony of suspense as Beleg raced desperately along the length of the tail. If the body washed over the falls before the Elfit made it to the end, he would be pulled along with it to a certain death …

Beleg gathered himself to leap; but at that very moment, the dragon's tail convulsed for the last time, flicking like a whip through the air, and the Elfit was hurled forward into the water. With a swish, the dragon disappeared over the waterfall, and the river was clean once more.

Beleg broke the surface of the water and began to swim hard against the current. He was tired, but the river did not flow swiftly here, and he made progress slowly toward the eastern shore. Trotter looked back at the Marshes once; the islands had already closed in once more, and no sign of their passing remained. Then he, too, struck out for land.

A few minutes later, the company assembled, wet and exhausted, under the trees on the east bank of the Brandywine River. Beleg collapsed on the ground and rolled onto his back, chest heaving. Anna and Falco had managed to paddle their boat to land, drawing it up onto the shore and saving half of their supplies. The two sat shivering on the soft, pine needle covered earth. June stood by the bank, staring out at the river.

Trotter stumbled over to the Elfit. "Beleg," he said wearily, "The next time you tell me to throw you a rope, I'll hang it around your neck."

"Then you might as well do it now and get the thing over with," Beleg said, sitting up with an obvious effort, "I can hardly breathe anyway." The Elfit brushed his sopping hair away from his face and stared up at Trotter. Lines of fatigue marked his face, clearing visible in the checkered moonlight under the trees.

Trotter looked around at his seated company. "Are we all …" he began to ask. Then he stopped. Someone was missing. There were only five of them.

Falco stared up at Trotter, realization dawning on his face. Trotter turned slowly to look at June, who was still gazing at the flowing Brandywine.

"He never came up," she whispered, clearly audible in the night stillness, "He just never came up again."

The last stray bits of wood were floating gently over the white falls, but Folco Oldbuck had disappeared. A strangled gasp escaped from Falco's throat. Trotter did not look at the remaining twin. Bitter anger curdled in him – he had been entrusted with five, and now he had four. They had all looked to him to lead them, and he had failed on the very first occasion. And the price of that failure was higher than he could afford to pay.

A loud crack! rent the air, making all of them jump. June had broken her bow into two pieces. She took a step forward and, with all her strength, threw the two halves into the dark water. Then she crumpled to the ground and began to weep.

When morning dawned, it found the five remaining travellers in the same spot by the edge of the Brandywine. As the first rays of the sun touched the dark needles bristling from the surrounding trees, Trotter lifted his head and blinked. He looked around wonderingly, as if awaking from a deep sleep, though he had found no rest that night.

The Brandywine flowed on, indifferent to the sorrow it had caused the five small wanderers who had braved its mighty currents. The sun shone unconcernedly, and birds began to sing in the trees. Trotter stood up stiffly, surveying the four figures sitting with downcast eyes on the forest floor. Day had come, and it was time to move on.

"We can't stay here anymore," he said. His voice broke the heavy silence, startling his companions out of their thoughts. "We have to go on."

Beleg nodded and leaped to his feet, brushing off the pine needles that stuck to his wrinkled clothing. He seemed to have regained most of his strength, though Trotter was sure he had not slept, any more than the rest of them.

"I am going to wash and have a look around," the Elfit said, "I'll be back in a few moments. At least we still have some of our supplies – hopefully they will be enough until we get to a town where we can replenish them. I suggest you unpack the boat and salvage what you can."

Beleg strode off southwards along the riverbank, disappearing quickly into the trees. Trotter, with Anna and June's help, dragged the boat completely onto dry land and began to go through the packs and bags that had not been washed away. Falco did not join them, nor did he speak a single word. He remained where he sat, staring sightlessly into the distance. Trotter decided it would be better not to bother him.

Luckily, most of their food had been in the surviving boat, and despite the thorough soaking, the larger part of it remained usable. There were other useful objects as well: rope, a tinderbox, a few pots, some now-wrinkled blankets, and a quiver of arrows. Beleg would be glad to see that – the Elfit had lost his own in the river. By the time Beleg returned, clean and fresh once more, the three of them had packed what they deemed most necessary into five small bundles.

"We have not landed quite where we wished to," Beleg said, "One can see quite a ways from the top of the waterfall there – there's a steep drop downhill, and the trees thin out. The land on the horizon is flat, and there is a road running along it. That should be the Shire Road, which crosses the river at Sarn Ford, where we meant to take to land. We are somewhat north of it now, but only by a few hours or so."

"Then we are hardly off course at all," Trotter said, relieved, "That's something at least. We cannot waste anymore time."

"But what about – what about Falco?" Anna asked, glancing sadly at the silent Hobbit. Hearing her words, Falco blinked and looked up at them. He seemed surprised to see all four of them staring at him, as if he had not noticed their presence before.

"Are we going on then?" he asked, "It's just as well – I don't want to see this blasted river any longer. I don't believe I shall ever go boating again, never in my life." He stood up, looking around slowly. "What was that – that thing? A water-dragon?"

"Yes," Beleg said, "Not really a dragon, of course – true dragons breathe fire and are much cleverer than water-dragons. These are more like overgrown snakes, bloated to such a size that they can no longer move on land, which is why they live in water. They like shallow ponds or lakes, with deep mud at the bottom where they can dig themselves in and hide from the sun, for their eyes are very sensitive. Once they were much more common, but they have declined over the years – which, as I think everyone will agree, is a positive thing."

Falco nodded. "Well, then I suppose we should be going. There is no point in waiting any longer, after all." He looked at the brown river and sighed deeply. "I never thought I should come to dislike the Brandywine," he said, "But now I feel – I feel that I hate it, and I wouldn't mind at all if all the dragons in the world came and dried it up with their fiery breath!"

With these words, he shouldered one of the small packs and walked southwards into the woods. His four companions followed quickly, but not without glancing backward sadly more than once.

The land sloped downhill quickly; here the higher country fell down into the low, flat plains, which spread all the way to the sea. The trees were tall and well spaced, spicy-scented evergreens that carpeted the ground with fallen needles. After a while the sound of the Brandywine faded as they veered away from the river. Silence filled the woods, disturbed only by the occasional call of a bird or the quick knocking of a woodpecker's beak. Once they startled a roe deer, which bounded away into the forest, its dappled hide blending into the uneven sunlight. Despite the sun, it was cold, and the wind blew in fitful gusts; they were all glad of their cloaks.

Towards noon, the land finally levelled out and the trees came to an end. They looked out from the last eaves and saw the Shire Road crossing their path, and Minhiriath stretching out endlessly on the other side.

"Well then," Trotter said, "This is where we part." He turned to Falco. "I am sorry. I did not lead you as I should have, and everything that has happened is my fault. I hope you will forgive me. In any case, you have no obligation to us, and can go back to the Shire as you choose."

"Do not blame yourself!" Falco said, "There has been enough sorrow already. Yes, I will go back to the Shire – but maybe I will not stay there. I should not like my little country to be overrun by creatures like that water-dragon, and I suppose that is what will happen if the Witch-King has his way. Something must be done; I will speak to my uncle about it, and to the Tooks and the other great families. But I wish you luck on your journey!"

"No doubt we'll need it," Anna said. She hugged Falco impulsively, and even Beleg clasped the Hobbit's hand, giving him a half-smile.

"And do you still wish to come with us?" Trotter asked June, "You have already seen what our journey consists of. That was only the beginning – I can't guess what else we may meet on our way! And perhaps you can still play a part in the downfall of the Witch-King, as you desired to, at home in the Shire."

June looked out across the wide plains, but then she shook her head.

"I have hardly proven myself fit to join you," she said, "If it hadn't been for my arrow, the water-dragon would have passed us by, and Folco would be here now. No, I will not go with you; I am going home to the Shire. But maybe we will meet again before the end – I hope so, at least."

"As do I," Trotter said, "You are more valiant than many people I have known … even if you are a girl." He grinned, and she smiled back.

"Farewell!" she said, "And good luck!"

With a few final goodbyes, June and Falco left them and walked away westwards, toward Sarn Ford and the Shire. Trotter and his companions watched the two steadily shrinking figures until they disappeared into the distance. Then they turned and, crossing the Shire Road, stepped onto the plains.


	12. Wandering Hearts

Minhiriath was not a plain of tall grass like the northern part of Gondor, nor of bare earth like the Brown Lands. Short, pale green grass covered the flat land; at times the stalks were crowned with yellow, so that the plain was spotted with patches of golden down. But nowhere did the grassland grow higher than Trotter's ankles. Once all that land had been covered in great forests, but Men had cut them down long ago, until only the flat land and the open sky remained. In some places yellow rushes grew, usually on the banks of small streams that were rarely visible from farther away, and seemed to pop up unexpectedly under one's feet.

No people lived here, but the land was not lifeless. Many times Trotter saw large birds circling overhead; he wondered where they nested, since there were no trees in sight, and decided finally that they must build homes on the ground. Small birds with feathered feet and fan-like tails darted across their path at times, ignoring the passage of the three small wanderers. Whenever they passed a watercourse, they heard soft cooing noises from among the rushes. Anna claimed that these were made by frogs, which would later dig themselves into the mud and sink into a long sleep for the winter. They saw horses as well, herds of them; some were small and shaggy wild ponies, but others were great and swift. Trotter could not know it, but this latter kind was descended from escaped mounts of Gondorian soldiers in their wars with the Dunlendings.

Soon they had left behind the Road and the higher country, and the plain spread out endlessly all around them. The sky was a blue bowl overhead. No sign of civilization could be detected, and at times Trotter almost forgot that they were still in Middle Earth – could they not have strayed into some distant land, where no human race had ever set foot?

The wind blew without rest, and always from the west. It was not cold, and the sound of it was pleasant, like the murmur of the sea. After a while they became accustomed to it, and they found that it was as sure an indicator of direction as the sun and the stars.

For several days they travelled undisturbed, save for the occasional visits from the boldest of the horse herds that sometimes followed them in curiosity. These delighted Anna, and she often pointed them out to Trotter and Beleg long before either of them became aware of their visitors.

They travelled every day from dawn until nightfall, pushing on as quickly as they could without horses to ride. In the evening they huddled around their rush campfire – protected by windscreens woven also from the rushes – and Beleg often told a story or sang a song to pass the time. At Trotter's request, the Elfit began to teach him the ancient tongue of the Elves as well, and to his delight, he found he had rather a knack for languages. He did not forget a word once he heard it, and soon enough he was speaking in halting sentences, the old words rolling off his tongue as if he were a Noldorin Elf himself.

It was the evening of their fifth day on the plains, and they were already drawing close to the Greyflood River, when Trotter attempted his first short poem in the Elvish language. They were sitting around the fire, and the flames were crackling softly, and before he knew it he was speaking aloud.

_"I súrë harya lírë; lindëa lárnyan.  
Queta lisseva mí salquë, or i landa latina nórië.  
Aurer autëa lintavë, i vanwië vanwa.  
Arwa otornonyo, osellenyo, umin rucë.  
Umilmë ohtacarë. Cáralmë lairer.  
I eleni nar rossë i Menelo  
Serenta ná serelma."_

"Not bad at all," Beleg remarked, "For a beginner, of course." He had been listening quietly as he cleaned his knife, which had unfortunately rusted slightly after its adventure in the Brandywine River.

"I thought it was lovely," Anna said, "Even though I didn't understand a word of it. Much better than Beleg here could do himself, anyway."

Beleg rolled his eyes towards the star-strewn heavens and sighed in mock distress. "O melmenya! Súcanyë i sárië quetelyaron!"

Trotter laughed. "It's hardly a worthy use of the language," he said, "But I didn't really mean to speak at all. It just seemed to come of itself, if you know what I mean."

"I absolutely do not," Beleg said, nodding emphatically. He had been in good humour for days, and his biting wit had gentled somewhat, to the point that Anna was forced to remark that he was obviously growing old and soft.

"In any case," Trotter said, "I have grown quite fond of Minhiriath, and I am almost sorry that we can't stay here. It's a lovely place – not dangerous or dark at all."

"No, not dark and dangerous," Anna agreed, "But we are not near the dwellings of Men yet. Here there is no evil; only the grass and the wind and the animals. The dark things gather further south, near Tharbad and around the country of the Dunlendings. I suspect we will have more trouble once we get there." She sighed. "The land is so peaceful when there are no people on it. Men always manage to bring evil everywhere, as if they wanted to live in the middle of pain and darkness. Except in the Shire, of course," she added thoughtfully, "The Shire is quite different, not like a place of Men at all."

"That is because it's a place of Hobbits!" Trotter said, "And Hobbits are not Men, even if we look like them in all but size."

"Unfortunately, the charming land of the Halflings is far behind us," Beleg said, tossing his now-gleaming knife up and down in the air, "And it will most likely be long before we see it again. All those dark and dangerous lands still lie in front of us, so don't get too fond of peace just yet!"

"I am always fond of peace," Anna said, "Even when everyone else is fighting and throwing knives around."

Beleg continued to throw his knife around, sending it into a flashing loop through the air and catching it deftly a moment later. "You should still bear some type of weapon. In these days it is always prudent, and on a quest like this it is madness to go unarmed."

"Well, I am going unarmed anyway," Anna said, "I want nothing to do with weapons of any kind."

Beleg stopped playing with his dagger and frowned at her. "That is not wise," he said, "What if something were to attack you? What if that water-dragon had tried to swallow you days ago? Without a weapon, you would be as good as dead."

Anna muttered something that they were apparently not supposed to hear. Trotter thought it was something like, "better me than someone else." Now that he thought about it, he had never seen Anna touch a weapon, except for the night they had met in Bree, when she had carried a Dwarven dagger, and later his own Nyéra. But even then she had been only too glad to get rid of the sword ...

"But why?" Beleg asked, "Killing is hardly a favourite pastime of mine either, but this is almost fanaticism."

"Then if everyone were a bit more fanatic, we wouldn't have wars at all," Anna said.

"Why?" Beleg asked again. Anna only shook her head and refused to answer.

Trotter wondered what was going through her mind at that moment. She was staring into the fire and seemed to have forgotten the presence of her companions. There was a troubled expression on her face, as if she were recalling some painful memory; he only hoped they had not reminded her of an unpleasant episode from her past. Trotter knew that Anna had found something in their little trio that she had never had before, and he did not want to take it away from her again. The past was a closed book as far as he was concerned; there were dark memories there for both of them that he did not want to bring to the light.

He slept longer that night than he had meant to, and when he opened his eyes the sun was already halfway above the horizon, caressing the wide plains with slender fingers of light. Their fire had burnt out, and only grey ash lay among the dead coals. He blinked sleepily into the lightening sky, then sat up.

Beleg lay next to him, not asleep, but sprawled tensely flat on his stomach a few feet away. As soon as he noticed that Trotter was awake, Beleg grabbed the Hobbit by the arm and pulled him down beside him.

"What -?" Trotter asked, startled.

"Shhh. Look!" Beleg pointed eastwards. Trotter followed the line of the Elfit's finger with his eyes until he saw what his friend wanted him to see.

About a hundred yards away, one of the wild herds of horses that roamed the plains was grazing lazily on the grass. It was a small group, only ten or so individuals, but they were of the large, swift kind that Trotter had admired before. They were clustered together in a rough circle, apparently minding their own business, except for the leader, a tall black stallion, who stood some yards away.

The sun rose golden behind him, silhouetting the animal with a shining aura. The horse stood with head bowed and did not move. Then it shook its mane once, and suddenly Trotter saw that it was not alone. There was another silhouette, small and dark, crouching before the horse. It was a human figure ... and suddenly he knew that it was Anna.

The girl was tiny compared to the horse, not even reaching to its shoulder, but she seemed completely unafraid. As Hobbit and Elfit watched, she reached out one gold-bordered hand and laid it onto the horse's nose. The two stood there, stark black shapes outlined brilliantly by the blazing light, for only a moment. Then the stallion pulled away, tossing its head, and trotted back to its herd. Anna remained where she was, slender and dark before the rising sun.

"You were right," Beleg said softly.

"About what?" Trotter asked.

"What was it you said to me ... 'Anna is a gentle soul, too gentle for the world. You just have to open your eyes and see it.' I didn't believe you, you know. But now ... what kind of person refuses to bear a weapon and loves horses more than her own people?"

"A very special one," Trotter laughed, "As I am sure even you have realized by now."

Beleg was silent for a moment. "You are so much like her," he said, "The two of you together ... you are like Elf-children, or angels. So innocent, so good. How do you do it?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," Trotter said, "I do not think I am particularly innocent, and as for good ... well, I only try to do what seems best in every situation. But everyone does that – don't they?"

The Elfit didn't answer. Instead he said, "She loves you."

"Of course!" said Trotter, "And I love her as well." Beleg stared at him with wide blue eyes, and suddenly he realized that his friend had meant the word in a different sense.

"Oh. No, you don't understand. It's not like that..." he fumbled for words, trying to explain, "She is like my family, and I am hers – we don't have anyone else left. Except that isn't exactly right either ... we are all like a family, all three of us. You are here too."

"I see," Beleg said, looking back at Anna, who was walking slowly back towards them.

Trotter did not question the Elfit further, deciding it would be better to let the matter lie. He was no fool, and he could guess his friend's thoughts easily enough, but he did not think Beleg would appreciate him commenting on the matter.

It was in the afternoon of that day that the first disturbing signs began to appear. They were striding along over the grass under the sun when a tiny black cloud drifted across the sky. Besides the fact that the cloud was black, however, it was moving against the wind, from east to west. When they stopped to watch it apprehensively, they realized that it was not a cloud at all, but a flock of birds; crows, to be exact.

"Crebain," Beleg said, "They are spies – they are looking for us!"

But there was nowhere to hide on the coverless Minhiriath. The crows wheeled overhead, calling and cawing loudly to each other. Then, all at once, they wheeled and began to fly northwards.

Trotter took this as a bad sign, and his companions were not comforted either. They decided to push on as far as they could that day; none of them wanted to remain near the spot where the crows had seen them. The sun sunk behind them as they walked, and no further sign of crebain or other creatures appeared. Trotter had begun to hope that they had been wrong and the crows had been ordinary birds, not in the service of the Witch-King, when the first howls split the air.

"They have found our trail," Beleg said.

"Are you sure?" Anna asked nervously.

"Yes," Beleg answered grimly.

The howls multiplied, rising and falling in an eerie melody contrary to the harmony of the wind. They were still far distant, many leagues to the north, but Trotter knew full well that that would be little protection.

"What are they?" Anna asked.

"Werewolves," Trotter said, "My father used to tell me about them. They are like ordinary wolves, only much bigger, and evil, and some have poisonous bites. Sometimes they allow Orcs to ride on their backs, when they want to travel quickly; and sometimes normal wolves travel with them as well, for they are akin to each other."

"They are Wargs," Beleg agreed, "And they have been sent after us. Unless we want to fight fifty or so of them by ourselves, we must make our way to a place of safety."

"Tharbad," Trotter said, "It's the only town in these lands. We are still a ways away, but those howls sound distant enough that we can make it there before they catch up easily enough."

"But only if we hurry!" Beleg said, "We should not stop tonight."

"Tharbad..." Anna said, "Is there no other place we can go to?"

"Not that I know of," Trotter said, frowning, "Why?" She did not answer, but he remembered suddenly that she had lived in Tharbad before she had come to Bree – perhaps that was why she disliked the idea of going there. "We don't have much other choice," he said, "But don't worry! We will be with you. And Tharbad is better than a Warg's belly, isn't it?"

"Of course, of course..." Anna said, "Let's go, then!"

They struck out eastwards, hurrying as quickly as their tired legs would allow. The day was still light; though the sun had lowered in the sky, it shone brightly. At occasions, they heard the howls of the Wargs far behind them, an eerie music accompanying the lowering light. Every time the werewolves voiced their cold song, the three travellers jumped and ran forward, only to slow back to a fast walk later.

Finally, Anna stopped and bent over, rubbing her legs.

"I have a cramp," she said, sounding frightened.

"We can't stop here!" Beleg cried.

"We can't walk all the way to Tharbad tonight either," Trotter said.

"Don't be silly," Anna said, "The two of you are quite alright, and if you keep on, you will reach Tharbad soon enough. I used to live here, remember; the town is not so far from where we are now. The sensible thing to do is for you two to go on. I'll catch up when I can."

"Oh, no you don't!" Trotter and Beleg said at once.

"We are not going to leave you here!" Beleg said indignantly.

"Under any circumstances!" Trotter agreed, "And don't pretend you mean to catch up – you can't walk any more and that's that, and you're trying to send us away!"

"Of course I am!" Anna said angrily, "And if you weren't such fools, you would go! What's the sense in all of us being eaten when you could escape?"

"We're not going anywhere without you," Beleg said firmly, "So you might as well stop arguing. I have a full quiver of arrows with me, and Trotter has his sword. They will not find us easy prey." But he did not sound very confident.

"Listen!" Anna said, "Do you hear that? They are coming closer, singing their dreadful song!"

Sure enough, the evening air rang with icy music. The voices of the Wargs had grown in number and volume; there were more of them, and they were closing in unfailingly on the three small wanderers. Trotter wondered just how long they could hold out against a pack of werewolves. If they failed now, what would become of Arnor? But he could not just leave Anna behind to be eaten...

The song was growing. A new voice had joined the symphony. But ... Trotter frowned. The new song was different, nothing at all like the Wargs' music. It flowed smoothly, firm and fluid, seeming to tell of acceptance and joy, loss and yearning beyond anything Trotter had known in his short life. There was a tale in every note, and with every note it became stronger. The werewolves' voices dropped out one by one, and the howls of the pack stilled, as if they had been shocked into silence by the new singer. The song, alone now, continued.

"What is it?" Anna asked wonderingly, "That is no wolf song!"

It came from much closer than that of the pack. Trotter turned in a circle, seeking the source. The sunlight glimmered over the short grass – but there, on the distance, a new feature decorated the horizon. Trotter squinted. It was a tree.

"It's coming from that tree," he said, "The singer must be there. He seems to have scared the Wargs at least – let us go and see who it is!"

They began to hurry once more, and soon they drew close to the lone tree. It was swaying back and forth in the wind, but try as he might, Trotter could not make out anyone near it. The song had not ceased, rather, it had grown louder and stronger. In fact, it seemed to be coming from the tree.

Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks. At his side, Anna gasped in wonder.

The tree was singing.

Here was the singer: the beautiful melody that had drawn them here radiated from the tree, if a tree it was. In fact, as Trotter stared it seemed to him that the singer looked less and less like a tree and more like a person, though unlike any person he had ever met. She - somehow he knew it was a she and not a he after all - was tall, ten feet at least, and her hair was long and green, twiggy at the roots like the branches of a tree. Her skin was a smooth reddish-brown; it seemed thicker than normal skin somehow, more akin to bark. Her arms were long and strong, branching into many fingers; her legs were thick and her feet sprouted toes like the roots of a tree. She wore a green gown of moss - or perhaps it was no gown, and the moss grew upon her skin, Trotter could not tell. White flowers grew along her hairline, like a natural circlet of a queen. Queenly she seemed indeed, and radiant as she sang.

Trotter did not know how long he stood, spellbound. The Wargs and their pursuit were forgotten. It seemed to him that all was a dream, or that he had somehow travelled outside the borders of the earth. Truly there were wonders in the world beyond what even the oldest tales told.

Slowly, Trotter became aware that the song had stopped. He felt as if he awoke from a long sleep, or swum up from the depths of a warm green pool. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he suddenly became aware of something else as well: the singer had spotted them.

More fantastic even than anything yet were her eyes. They were deep and clear, green flecked with gold. They were wells of wisdom, filled with knowledge and kindness and thoughts that Trotter felt must be as old as the world. She was ancient, this singer, for all her beauty. But as they regarded each other, Trotter saw that she was not without sorrow; her cheeks were hollow, and scars marred her brown skin. Her liquid eyes swirled with sadness and confusion as well as wisdom and benevolence.

"An Entwife," whispered Beleg at his side.

"An Entwife," Trotter echoed. Next to him, Anna stared at the singer in awe. Silence reigned between the three of them.

"Er ... Beleg?" Trotter said, shrugging uncomfortably, "What exactly is an Entwife?"

Beleg turned to stare at him in surprise. Before he could speak, however, he was forestalled by the Entwife herself; her laughter, to be precise. Trotter blushed. Her laughter was like a song itself, clear bells ringing and echoing through the trees. Her eyes were merry now, and she swayed and shook with mirth. Trotter felt very young all of a sudden; rather childish, in fact, and not adventurous or heroic at all.

"What am I?" the Entwife said, still chuckling, "Hmmm, and what might you be? Far have I travelled and seen many strange things, only to find surprises in my own homeland! Hum!" Her voice was a pleasant rumble, sweet and soothing as a mother's lullaby.

"If you please," Beleg said, stepping forward and bowing, "I am Beleg the Elfit, and these are my companions Trotter the Hobbit and Anna Applethorn."

"Hobbit! Elfit!" the Entwife exclaimed, "Not in the old lists, those." Her brow wrinkled, "Very odd now, that. But we mustn't be hasty. You asked what an Entwife is?"

Trotter nodded. "I have never heard of one before," he said, "And I wish I had, for you are very beautiful, and I would have liked to have known of you before."

"Hum! Beautiful?" she answered, "Perhaps - but you mustn't judge by beauty alone, you know. Hasty decisions lead to nasty consequences, I always say. I could be an evil tree with a twisted black heart, after all, in league with Goblins and Wargs and the Dark Lord himself!" Her eyes twinkled. "But enough jest," She continued, "You have kindly told me your names, and I will return the favour. I am Fimbrethil in the Elvish tongue, Wandlimb in your language. Come, lay down your packs and talk with me awhile. I am curious about you, who are not on the ancients lists."

"But the Wargs..." Anna said, "Won't they catch us?"

"Hmmm, what?" Fimbrethil said, "Those young pups? They can't sing a true song, no matter how they try! The music of true wolves, now that is a joy to hear, but these werewolves twist the art, as they are twisted themselves." She shook her leafy head. "They have heard my song, and I daresay they are rather frightened to meet a real singer! They were quite hasty in following you, weren't they? Ran into something they didn't expect! I doubt they will come near for a while. But before we do anything, we must speak a while and decide what is best. It doesn't pay to make quick decisions!"

Without the slightest further hesitation, Beleg pulled off his pack and seated himself on the soft grass next to Fimbrethil. He seemed to trust in the Entwife's conviction that the Wargs would not dare to come near. Trotter and Anna followed his lead, eager to learn more about this strange singer. She towered far above them, her arms shading them like the branches of a tree.

"Have the Entwives then returned?" Beleg asked, eyes shining, "I have heard many tales of their disappearance and of the long search of the Ents for their lost mates."

A frown creased Fimbrethil's brow like a shadow, darkening her eyes. She shifted nervously, her hair rustling like leaves.

"They search for us?" she asked softly, "How long have they sought?"

"Why - for many years," Beleg replied, "Since long before my birth. Did you not know?"

But it was obvious from Fimbrethil's expression that she had not. Trotter watched her closely, and it seemed to him that there was a sorrow deep inside her, a sorrow that had waited long and was only now coming into the light. She seemed to him like a woman who has travelled long to reach her home, only to find that she had forgotten the way.

"I do not know the story of the Entwives, Fimbrethil," Trotter said softly, "But I see that some unhappiness darkens your heart. Perhaps if you tell us your story, we will be able to help you."

She gazed at him in silence. Then, "Your eyes see clearly, young Hobbit," she said, smiling once more. "Very well. I will tell you my tale."

"It is a rather strange and sad story," she began, "And it has no ending that I yet know of. Many years ago, when the world was young and the woods were wide and wild, the Ents and Entmaidens lived together and walked together. Ah! yes ... we were happy, together in the woods, taking care of the trees and the plants we loved. The strength of Fangorn, and the laughter in his eyes - I remember them yet. But our hearts did not grow together. The Ents loved to wander in the forests, talking with the trees and living among the wild things. But we Entwives, we saw that there was pain and barrenness where there could be beauty. We saw the dark places in the woods where the trees fell upon one another and were choked in roots and vines, and the fruit that did not ripen for lack of sun or water. And it seemed to us that we, the Shepherdesses of the Trees, betrayed our office and that which we loved by allowing this waste and decay. In our minds there came visions of gardens, gardens like no other; long orchards stretching away into the distance, heavy with fruit; cherries, peaches, apples, pears; herbs growing in thickets, their scent flooding the air; great fields of wheat waving in the wind; gentle streams flowing to feed the greenery. And all growing in the light and giving fruit and seed to the world.

"But when we spoke of our dreams to the Ents, they did not hear us, for to them the wilderness was beautiful, where everything grew without direction, whether good or bad. This saddened us a little, but it seemed of no great import; we built our gardens and tended them while the Ents shepherded the trees, and all was well for a while.

"But then the great Darkness came in the North, and we feared for ourselves and our charges and all that we had worked hard to build and keep safe. So we went far away, across the Great River, leaving behind the evil and the dark, and set ourselves to building the gardens anew. These gardens, now, were yet more magnificent than the first; the tilled fields and orchards, blossoms and fruit, rich and growing. Many men came to us to learn our craft, and we taught them gladly, for they helped to spread the life and beauty that we cherished so. We saw the Ents more seldom now, for they remained in the forests with their trees. By and by, we saw them not at all, so entrenched were each in their way of life. They did not come to visit us; they forgot us. But we were yet content with our gardens.

"But alas! Our gardens were not to grow in peace. War came to our land, and the shadow grew in the East."

Fimbrethil paused, and her eyes were distant. Trotter could almost see the endless orchards in them, gardens of unimaginable beauty ... ravished by the fire and blood of war. He was silent, barely breathing, spellbound. His companions sat at his side, lost in the tale as he was himself.

"Yes, war came," Fimbrethil continued, "And it passed over our land. Nay, it did not pass; it devoured! The trees were broken, hacked down for firewood and building materials, the fields burned, what fruit that was not immediately eaten trampled. Hrooom! Fire swept over our fields ... we could hear the trees groaning as they fell. Their skeletons lay upon the once-green earth. Their fruits rotted upon the ground; the air, once sweet with heavenly scents, stunk with decay. This had become of our work, of our dreams.

"But we had no time to mourn, for war is indiscriminate, and we had no desire to lay dead upon the brown earth next to our trees. We fled to the East, seeking to outrun the black hatred and burning anger that lay behind. Often we wondered what had become of the Ents: did they live? Had they survived? Had they fought? We tried to return to them, but whenever we turned our steps back to the West, we were met only with blood and pain. So we continued on, fleeing ever further East. We crossed many strange lands this way: burning deserts, tall mountains, freezing plains and fertile valleys. Some were very beautiful, some desolate. For a time we even forgot our fear in the wonder of our new surroundings.

"Finally we came to a new land, one inhabited by men. The Easterlings, they are called here, and they are indeed strange to look upon. Small and black-haired, speaking tongues we had never heard before. They feared and hated us immediately. Perhaps they thought we were an evil kind of magic; in any case, they hunted us wherever we came upon them.

"We were scattered far and wide, driven apart by the hatred and the raids of these humans. Many a sister I saw burn like a torch, or chopped to pieces for firewood. Rrroom! An Entwife for the fire! Ah, it was terrible! A horror such as I could not bear to witness again! Even now it pains me, so many years later ... all gone, all gone. My gardens, my sisters ...

"We were splintered as if by lightning, lost in a strange land. How we missed the Ents then! Why had we cut ourselves off from them before? For now they were lost to us. No Ents, no Entings, and soon enough, no Entwives. The wild woods faded in our hearts; our gardens were dim and pale in our minds. Dust and ashes, all.

"One day the Easterlings held a great hunt for us; their King offered rewards to those of his murdering men who killed the greatest number of Entwives! They came with fire in their hands, fires that could not be put out even with water, and they drove us through the woods. I became separated from my friends and sisters, and I fled from the sounds of their voices, dying under the hands of men.

"Long I wandered alone after that fleeing the fires and axes of men, knowing not whither I ran. Often I thought of Fangorn, and wondered what had become of him. And finally, after many, many years, I came to a place that seemed familiar to me. I stood at the shores of a salty sea, and knew that I had come to the Sea of Rhûn, the easternmost march of Middle Earth. I felt then a stirring of hope in my heart, knowing that I had come home; and I set out to the West to find the Ents and my lost abode.

"Alas! I came to our gardens, or the place where they had once been. All dead, all brown, ugly and bare. Men call them the Brown Lands now. Such is the evil of war.

"And I came finally to the woods of the Ents. Silence greeted me as I stood under the eaves. The trees waited there, wild as ever, but the Ents were gone. Despair nearly overwhelmed me ... after so many years, so much pain and destruction, even the Ents, our dear Ents, were gone. What is there now? Our people are gone. I turned my feet to the West and went whither they led me, passing by the mountains and over the Greyflood. And I came to this land, so beautiful in its purity. Here, I wished to rest. I could stand among the grasses, unmoving, until I drifted into a sleep. There are no trees here, no trees to sing with the voices of the Ents, no memories. To be like a tree myself ... but today I hear the singing of the wolves far away, and it troubled me. The dark creatures are getting ever bolder; but I do not love them, and my own song is stronger than theirs. So I sang, and you, hearing me, have come, strange beings such as I have never seen before.

"And you tell me now that the Ents are not dead, but that they search for us somewhere - and a fruitless search it will be, for I think no Entwife survived to return to Middle Earth beside myself. The Entwives are dead, and the Ents have gone far away in their search.

"That is my tale, Trotter of Bree. Think you now that you can help me?"

"I only wish I could," Trotter said, shaking his head. He frowned. Something about the tale tugged at his memory, but he could not decide what.

"It's so ... beautiful and sorrowful," Anna said, "I can hardly believe it's true." She sat comfortably, cross-legged. All three of the travellers had forgotten their fatigue in the tale of the Entwife, and Trotter hardly felt tired any longer.

"Hoo, eh?" Fimbrethil said, "Indeed? Well, I daresay you have a tale of your own to tell. I have stood here for quite a time, but I have not seen anyone else. Why might you be here, hmmm?"

"We are on a quest of our own," Beleg said, "And if you will allow, I will tell you about it!"

"Please do!" Fimbrethil said, "I am quite curious – almost too curious! I must cool down a bit. But first, tell your tale!"

Beleg obliged her gladly. Trotter's mind wandered as the Elfit recounted their errand and adventures. That strange feeling of familiarity that had begun to nag him as he listened to Fimbrethil's tale had not gone away. What was it? He was sure he had never heard of Entwives before ... or of Easterlings. And yet, something from the story was known to him.

"Well!" said Fimbrethil when Beleg had finished their story, "Your tale is hardly less extraordinary than mine! Hmmm! Little people have more about them than it seems! I must say I feel quite lively after hearing such a good story." She sighed. "Fangorn would have enjoyed it immensely ... he was always so fond of stories."

Fangorn ... Fangorn?

Suddenly, comprehension exploded in Trotter's head like a wizard's fireworks.

"Fangorn!" he cried, leaping to his feet.

Anna and Beleg stared at him as if he were a madman, and Fimbrethil's gaze too, was full of surprise.

"I've got it!" Trotter gasped, full of excitement, "I knew it was familiar somehow! Fangorn!"

"Trotter?" Beleg asked, puzzled, getting to his feet, "What are you talking about?"

"Some hasty idea, eh?" Fimbrethil asked, "Hoom, what are you thinking, little Hobbit?"

"I come from Bree, Beleg!" Trotter exulted, "Never thought it would come in handy, but ... Bree, the crossroads of Arda, where rumours and stories of all sorts are told!"

"Now wait a minute..." Beleg began.

"You have heard something?" Fimbrethil asked, her deep, shining eyes fixed on him.

"Yes ... it was a very long time ago," he said, "Or, well, a very long time by my standards. Years, anyway – I will still a tweenager then. Some friends of mine and I were at the Prancing Pony. It was my friend's coming-of-age celebration, you see, and Bernard Butterbur - the innkeeper, that is - had a fresh shipment of Dwarvish ale. We were celebrating, and well, there was a party of Elves on their way from Rivendell to Lindon, and ... I don't recall his name, but one of the Elves, a tall blonde fellow, was telling a story of a visitor who came to Rivendell some weeks before. The name of that visitor was Fangorn, I remember it clearly! He had come through with some fellows of his, searching for something ... oh, I wish I had paid more attention! But we had had a bit too much ale, all of us, and the story was of no great import to us, you see. In any case, I never heard the word "Ent" and I assumed at the time that the people in question were Men. But now! If Fangorn came to Rivendell - why, he would have spoken with Lord Elrond, and you could go there and ask where they went - the Ents, that is..." Trotter trailed off as he watched Fimbrethil.

She stood up straighter, and her eyes were clear. It had grown late while they talked, and the sun was setting. Fimbrethil's shadow stretched out behind her, long and dark, like her past. She faced the sunset, and the sun set in her eyes. The light was red upon her skin, the breeze rustled through her hair. She lifted her arms, and they too were red in the dying light. Something stirred in Trotter's heart as he watched her. He swallowed, feeling unexplainably melancholy. Black and red ... he brushed away his thoughts.

"Rivendell..." she sighed into the wind. Then she smiled. "Fangorn. I will find Fangorn again ..." She turned to Trotter. "You have done me a great service, little Hobbit," she said, "You have given me hope." And she laughed as she had when she had first seen them. Caught up in her mirth, the three small travellers could not help but laugh as well.

"Then you will be going the same way as we for a while," Anna said excitedly, "Why don't we go together? That is," she said, turning to Trotter, "If you don't mind, since you are the official leader of our company!"

"Mind?" Trotter said, "I am delighted at the very idea!"

Fimbrethil smiled down at them. "Hmmm! That was a very hasty decision! It seems Hobbits are not the kind to think about things properly before they speak! But I am happy. And I am fortunate to have such companions," she said, "I shall add you to the old lists and tell Fangorn when I find him - although perhaps he knows of Hobbits and Elfits by now!"

"Well, then it's settled," Beleg said, "We can travel together tomorrow at least. Then we will have to go to Tharbad, and you can continue on northwards to Rivendell. But you must be careful; we do not know how far the Witch-King's arm now stretches. When we left I had not heard that his power had reached the Mitheithel, but now I cannot say."

"Hoom! The Witch-King, eh?" she shook her head sadly, "That young man made some very thoughtless decisions, and you can see what it's brought him to. But I do not fear him. We Entwives are stronger than we look; much stronger, and very few things in the world can hurt us."

Night had rolled over the plains by then, and there was no sign of the Wargs that had pursued them. Trotter allowed himself to relax, finally. He felt much more content than he had in a long while; he had been able to help someone, he had made a difference at last. It was just luck, of course, that he had overheard the Elf mention the name Fangorn, but it felt good nevertheless. Fimbrethil would find Fangorn. And perhaps the Ents, after hearing her story, would go to the East and find the other Entwives - some of them must have survived! And then there would be Entings, and they would grow into more Ents and Entmaidens. The gardens might blossom yet...

"I don't know about you, but I'm starving," Anna said suddenly, "We haven't eaten for hours, and tomorrow there is still more ground to cover." She reached for her pack and began to dig out some of their dwindling provisions. Trotter absently accepted the waybread and dried meat she handed him.

"Would you like something to eat, Fimbrethil?" Anna asked politely, offering the Entwife a piece of bread.

"Oh, we don't eat, we Entwives," she answered merrily.

"Don't eat?" Trotter asked in amazement, surprised out of his reverie, "How terrible!"

Fimbrethil laughed. "Nay, but we drink, and Entdraughts are as good as any man-food! Perhaps you would like to try one, hmmm?"

"I certainly would..." Beleg said. Trotter nodded in agreement, but wondered just where Fimbrethil kept these Entdraughts of hers. She carried no pack, and he could not see how else she would transport a drink.

As if she had read his mind, Fimbrethil said, "Hoom! And I don't have to carry Entdraughts upon my back either; wherever there is water, there is an Entdraught waiting to be made! There is a spring near here; be patient for a moment, and I will show you."

She turned slowly and began to walk away. Trotter watched in fascination as her long toes gripped the smooth earth with every giant stride. A few yards away, she bent to the earth and scooped something up with her hands. Trotter could not hear or see any sign of water, but he guessed that there was another of the tiny water-courses that were so common on the plains concealed there.

Fimbrethil blew twice on the water cupped in her huge hands. Then she began to walk back slowly, not a drop spilling.

"Hmmm ... Do you have a bowl?" she asked, "It may be easier for you that way!"

Luckily, they did have one bowl. Anna fished out of her pack, and Fimbrethil emptied the water from her hands into it. The water glimmered in the starlight, but it did not look particularly special; Trotter wondered what exactly this Entdraught was supposed to consist of.

Anna raised the bowl to her lips and drank deeply. Her eyes went wide, and she handed the bowl to him a second later.

"Trotter," she said, "You must try this!"

Wondering if this was some sort of elaborate joke, Trotter accepted the vessel and gingerly took a sip.

His eyes went wide. It definitely wasn't water! Liquid, yes, with the texture and thickness of water - but it tasted quite different. It tasted of fruit, almost like a fruit tea, but cool and somehow filling. He drank deeply. Perhaps it was only his imagination - it had been known to be rather wild at times - but he could have sworn that he could feel the draught spreading through his limbs, all the way to the hair on his toes, cleansing and invigorating him. He licked his lips, wondering how many other things there were in the world that he had never dreamed of. Then he handed the bowl to Beleg.

"Good, eh?" Anna asked, watching him, "I thought so myself! It's like magic, almost..."

"No, not magic," Fimbrethil murmured, "Just an Entdraught."

"It beats Dwarvish ale, in any case!" Beleg said after he had drunk from the bowl. Fimbrethil seemed mildly confused at this comment, but said nothing. She seemed to grow more alive by the minute, as if waking up from a very long sleep. Her long arms and flowing hair waved in the wind as she swayed gently back and forth. The sound was pleasant and peaceful, and Trotter felt drowsiness stealing over him as he listened.

"Ah! Fangorn!" Fimbrethil said, with a sigh as deep as the heart of the earth.

"_Ah Fangorn! I searched for you in all the world's wide lands  
Dearer to me than the labour and work of my own hands!  
From the Eastern Shore to the Northern Mounts  
From Sang-yama to Beiril's singing founts  
In the forests of Rassatando frozen fast  
Many young trees with strong roots I passed  
Where the sun never sets from the burning sky  
Where treetops rose beyond the reach of my eye  
I return to the land, to the earth so dear  
So hear that you are here, so near, so near ..."_

That night the three travellers fell asleep with the singing of an Entwife in their ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trotter's Song:  
> "The wind has a song; it is singing in my ears.  
> It speaks sweetly in the grass, over the wide free land.  
> The days pass swiftly, the past lost.  
> With my sworn-brother, my sworn-sister, I do not fear.  
> We do not make war. We make poetry.  
> The stars are the dew of the heavens  
> Their peace is our peace.
> 
> O melmenya! Súcanyë i sárië quetelyaron! - Literally: "O my love! I drink the bitterness of your words!" In effect: "Sweetheart, that hurt my feelings!"


	13. The Silver Claw

Walking trees are not a common sight, even in Middle Earth; and a walking tree with three child-like figures upon its branches would have given any inhabitant of Arda reason to stare. However, there was no one to see Trotter, Beleg, and Anna as they rode, somewhat self-consciously, on Fimbrethil's shoulders. Beleg had, of course, been mortified at the idea of allowing himself to be carried by a lady, especially one so old; but Fimbrethil had merely laughed, picked him up, and dangled him above the ground for a while, to the Elfit's great chagrin, until he conceded that her strength would not be overtaxed. So now the four of them travelled quickly and in high spirits across the plain of Minhiriath.

They had risen with the sun, feeling refreshed and hopeful. The Wargs did not seemed to have followed them further, and they did not trouble themselves over their vanished pursuit, though perhaps it might have been wiser to do so. Trotter marvelled at how quickly Fimbrethil walked; her strides were huge, and the plains passed by swiftly around them. They travelled eastwards and slightly north, on as straight a line as they could guess at to Tharbad.

"These were not always plains, you know," Fimbrethil said in her musically rumbling voice, "Once great forests covered all this land, stretching out endlessly to the Sea... but long ago Men came and chopped down the trees with their axes, and took away the bodies for their own use." She shook her head angrily.

"Men," Anna said dismissively, "What else can you expect from them ?"

"Saucy daughters," Beleg said with a wry grin. Anna tried to scowl, but could not help laughing in the end, and the conversation drifted on to lighter topics.

They continued on unmolested until the afternoon. Fimbrethil's shadow had already begun to lengthen towards the east when Trotter spotted a dark line on the northern horizon.

"Look!" he said, "That must be the South Road. If we follow it, we'll be on the right path to Tharbad for sure. Maybe we can even reach the city before nightfall..."

Before anyone could answer him, the dreaded sound of howls rose once more – but from the east this time. Almost simultaneously, the calls were echoed from the west; the same eerie cry rose on either side of them, shivering through the air like a triumphant symphony.

"The pack!" Beleg said.

"There are two of them!" Anna gasped, "We're surrounded!"

Fimbrethil stopped and turned her head from side to side, listening to the howls of the Wargs. Trotter had to hold on to her branchy hair tightly to keep from being shaken off. The calls continued unbroken, though no living creature was in sight. Trotter had the unpleasant feeling that they were being hemmed in, trapped until their pursuers saw fit to close in for the attack.

"So many of them," Fimbrethil said, sounding tired, "More than yesterday. They must know who you are – they would not congregate in such numbers for a few ordinary travellers."

"I suppose we should feel honoured," Beleg said.

"This is no time for jokes!" Anna said, "What are we going to do?"

Trotter stood up carefully on Fimbrethil's shoulder. He shaded his eyes and gazed around at the plains; from ten feet up he could see quite far. But there was nothing to see except the dark line of trees in the north.

"What is the country like on the other side of the Road, Anna?" he asked.

"Woods, mostly," Anna said, "The trees reach until the South Downs; at least, that's what it seemed like to me on my way to Bree."

"We can't possibly make it to Tharbad with a pack of Wargs in the way," Trotter said, "Our best chance, I should think, is to go north as quickly as possible. We can take cover in the forest on the other side of the Road."

"Have you considered that that might be exactly what they want us to do?" Beleg asked, gazing at him through Fimbrethil's green hair, "The further north we go, the closer we get to the Witch-King, and the stronger grows his power. Suppose there's an ambush waiting in the woods?"

"Do we have another choice?" Trotter said, "We can't go east or west without running into them straight away. The only other way is south. I don't know about you, but I don't savour the idea of being caught on the open plains. At least one can hide in the forest..."

"Hoom, yes," Fimbrethil agreed, "In the forest. Things always look better under tree-leaves. The trees are not friendly to creatures of the Witch-Lord... they will not like the presence of Wargs."

"North, then," Trotter said, "As quickly as may be."

By the time they reached the South Road, the sun had begun to set. Trotter felt inexpressibly relieved once the grey boughs of the trees closed behind them. Soon after they crossed into the forest, the howls that had followed them unceasingly suddenly stilled. Silence descended onto the woods; the tall autumn trees seemed to be watching them, waiting for something.

"Why have they stopped howling?" Anna asked nervously, "I'd love to believe they've given up, but..."

"They haven't," Beleg said grimly, "They have some other plan... I knew this was a bad idea. Can't we get out of sight somewhere?"

"Yes, I think that would be best," Trotter agreed, "Fimbrethil?"

"Hroom!" Fimbrethil said, "Hiding from those puppies! But maybe you are right. It is safer to hide now. Then we can decide what to do. We should not be too hasty... Listen! Do you hear the water? A pleasant sound for an Entwife! And maybe it will be a help to us now. The Dark Lord's power ends at the banks, and his servants fear it. Perhaps we can hide our trail."

Sure enough, they soon came upon a small ravine with a stream rushing quickly through it. It was evening by then, and the sunlight shining through the branches of evergreens dappled the forest floor. The ground was carpeted with brown pine needles, soft and brittle, and all sound was muffled. Dust motes danced in the rays of sun that peeped in between the trees. Vines and brush grew on the edge of the ravine, thick and tangled like the fur of a wild beast. The spot was so lovely that Trotter could almost have forgotten their danger, except for the heavy sense of expectancy in the air.

Fimbrethil waded up the stream until they reached a point where the banks towered up on either side. Then she put down her passengers on the muddy west bank carefully. She walked into the deepest channel, her root-like toes grasping the rocks of the streambed, surefooted as a mountain goat. There she stood, sighing as the water rushed over her.

"It is good to feel water on my skin again!" she said, "I was getting much too hot; but now I am cool again and I can think clearly. But I am afraid there is not much to think about – we can do little else but wait here, where the water may cover our scent and the trees hide us," She shook her head slightly, and her brown brow wrinkled. "The trees are afraid," she murmured, "They will not speak." Her voice trailed off into inaudible rumbles and she seemed to have forgotten the three small travellers cowering on the bank of the stream.

"So here we are," Beleg said, "And all we can do is wait."

"Wait, and hope we won't be found," Trotter agreed, "At least the Wargs cannot smell us in the water, and Fimbrethil looks like a tree even from here. Our presence may go unnoticed."

They watched Fimbrethil for a while as she stood in the stream, seeming almost asleep and more tree-like than ever. The water sparkled in the low light around her; the droplets on her skin looked like tiny jewels. Her arms reached up like tree branches, the flowers crowning her head shining brightly. She was beautiful and deep in a way unlike any person Trotter had ever known. There was an air of peace about her, despite her many trials, a stillness of soul that came from deep within. The stream's soft music filled the air around her. Trotter wondered if this little river, too, had a spirit, like the one where he had met Arneniel.

"Doesn't look too comfortable, does it?" Beleg said somewhat sceptically, gesturing at Fimbrethil.

Trotter grinned. "No, I suppose it wouldn't be, for you or me." He paused a moment. "She is lovely, though," he added softly.

Beleg nodded. "More beautiful than I had imagined. Even the songs of the Elves cannot come close to the truth."

They sat for a while, listening fearfully as the light grew dimmer and dimmer. Crickets began to chirp softly, and the night wind moved through the branches above them. No howls disturbed the night. Trotter began to hope that their trick had succeeded, and the Wargs had lost their trail.

Fimbrethil moved suddenly, wading slowly out of the stream. Water droplets ran down her shadowy skin like rivers of silver, now barely visible, shining faintly in the moonlight. The stream gurgled on as she stepped back into the shallows, looming tall in the darkness.

"Hroom!" she said, "Very nice. Will you not drink and rest? You should keep up your strength – we do not know what awaits us on the morrow. We may have to walk far, and quickly."

Trotter shook his head. "I prefer to do my resting on dry land, thanks. And a drink does sound nice, but I'd rather have a cup of hot tea."

Anna snorted in amusement. "Hobbits!" she said fondly, "You would be thinking of tea at a time like this. I would hardly put it past you to build a fire and invite the Wargs for an evening snack."

Beleg made a sound as if he were trying to hold back laughter, then began to chuckle softly. Trotter didn't find it all that funny, and he was about to say so when he was cut off by the very sound they had been dreading - a wolf howling in the distance.

With an oath, Beleg leapt to his feet. "By the Valar!" he cried, "It can't be!"

Trotter was about to ask what the Elfit meant by that, but he found himself listening in horror to the now continuous howls. There was something different about the sound – it was colder and deadlier, and yet more human. Shivers clawed their way down his spine. One voice rang louder than all the others, full of unspoken words and triumphant laughter.

"What is that?" Trotter gasped finally.

Beleg did not answer. His eyes shone with anger and Trotter could see that his face was set, his jaw clenched, his fists balled at his sides. Trotter was reminded of Beleg when they had first met; the jester had turned into a warrior once more, all hard edges and cold, grim eyes.

"We should leave this place," Fimbrethil said, sounding disturbed, "Hroom! We should move, now, out of their way. They expect us to cower here, too frightened to move. We will find a different place to hide until morning comes; perhaps they will not attack in the sunlight."

"I will not run from him!" Beleg raged to himself, apparently forgetting the presence of his companions, "Filthy, nasty, vile creatures! Vipers with fur! Slavering poison like some foul spider!" He took a step forward, looking perfectly ready to run into the woods to kill every Warg that crossed his path - with his bare hands if need be.

Another howl split the stillness of the forest, closer this time. Trotter grabbed Beleg's arm before the Elfit could dash off in the direction of the sound. He could feel the tension of his friend's muscles; his arm was stiff and hard as stone.

"Beleg! Stop!" he heard Anna hiss, "You wouldn't stand a chance!"

"I will not run any further!" Beleg cried in anger, rounding upon her and trying to pull away from Trotter's grip, "They have found our trail anyway! Why not go to meet them? Why flee like cowards?" He stared fiercely into Anna's eyes, his own eyes glinting in the dark with a hate-filled inner flame.

"You're right," Trotter said before Anna could speak, "They have found our trail. But if we fight them here it will be over before it has begun. We're on lower ground, and the banks are slippery. They will be able to leap on us from above." Silently, he willed his friend to heed him.

"Let them leap!" snarled Beleg, "Let them come! I will show them what an Elfit can do!"

"No," Fimbrethil said calmly, in a voice that demanded obedience, "Do not be hasty. It will lead to trouble... We can defend ourselves against them better in the open. We passed a clearing not far from here, you remember. Entwives are not helpless either, as I believe I have said before. If we face them in the open, perhaps we can hold them until they give up, or the sun rises."

Beleg said nothing, nor did he move. Three more howls rose toward the moon, from different directions – but all much closer than before.

"Please, Beleg," Anna said, in an unexpectedly gentle tone, "Do not let your anger cloud your common sense. You know this is our best chance."

Beleg looked at her, and Trotter could feel him relaxing slowly.

"Let us go then!" he said, tearing his arm out of the Hobbit's grasp. He began to climb up the steep bank quickly, using the trailing vines as handholds. Anna and Trotter followed; Fimbrethil only needed one large step to climb out of the ravine.

Without another word, Beleg dashed into the trees, heading toward a clearing-crowned hill they had passed on their way to the ravine. The same awful, cold wolf-voice that Trotter had heard before shrieked again; he stumbled for a moment at the sound. Beleg ran on like one possessed, and after a moment Trotter followed his friend into the darkness.

A chorus of howls sounded from all directions. They were eerie, like the wailing of the dead, and filled with malice and horror. Cold songs of death and hatred filled the air around him. Trotter could almost hear words amidst the howling and snarling: words of cruel hunger and love of pain. Heart pounding, he loosened Nyéra in its sheath as he slipped through the underbrush.

Then he saw... no, it couldn't be! But it was, his eyes did not lie. Tiny points of light appeared through the branches; orange light, like flames. They were on both sides of him. He dared not looked behind, but he knew what he would see: more light, more torches. The feeling that they had made a terrible mistake filled him. Wargs did not carry torches, of course.

"Beleg!" he cried. He had slowed down when he noticed the torches, and his friends had outdistanced him in the meantime. The ground had begun to slope upward. He was climbing the hill. "Beleg! Fimbrethil, Anna!" Trotter shouted frantically, "There are Goblins! Goblins!"

He could not tell if they had heard him. His breath tore at his throat and he ran as never before. Perhaps if he could catch them before they reached the clearing, they could still escape... The torches had closed in on either side, and he could now hear sounds of pursuit from behind. Crashing sounds, as if something large, or a great many somethings were following. Tree branches whipped him in the face, scratching his hands and forehead. His own breathing was loud in his ears, and yet he could not seem to catch up to his companions. He stumbled over a root, found his balance, kept running. The hill was steep here, and he laboured up its side, fearing to be too late. Where was the clearing? He tried frantically to see through the trees.

But up ahead... was that more light?

Trotter burst out of the woods and onto the hilltop with the taste of despair bitter in his mouth.

Torches ringed the clearing. He spun around, and they were behind him too, closing in. Fire danced on either side, all around. Their plan had been anticipated somehow, and now they were trapped. The torches threw flickering shadows madly on the ground. And some of those shadows were Wargs, huge black wolves reeking of evil. Goblins leered from behind the flames, huge grinning faces bristling with hatred. Memories flashed through his mind: Orcs bursting through the gate of Bree, a leering goblin-smile, the glint of a sword... He pushed the images away.

Fimbrethil, Beleg, and Anna were trapped in the centre of the clearing. Beleg was shouting in rage, his bow bent in his hands, and Fimbrethil's arms were raised, her powerful hands clenched in the air. Anna stood silently beside them... The sight twisted like a knife in Trotter's heart. Anna, who refused to bear a weapon and was the only creature here that was completely defenceless. He dashed over to join them. Sweat beaded on his brow; yet he felt oddly calm. The stars were above them, but they were cold and far away. He drew Nyéra from its sheath; the blade remained stubbornly black in despite of the torchlight.

The four of them stood back to back, and the ring of fire closed in upon them. The howls of Wargs and the taunts of Goblins mixed in a horrific din. Trotter couldn't tell how many there were; shadows mixed with them and slipped around them, confusing his eyes. Too many, though. Far too many.

"What took you so long?" Anna asked softly at his side. She looked perfectly composed, though sad.

"I had to write out the invitations to our evening snack," he said. Immediately he rued the weak joke. But to his surprise, a smile flickered over Anna's lips. She brushed a strand of hair out of his face.

"Looks like everyone has come," she said.

Suddenly, Trotter wished more than he had ever wished for anything in his life that he could turn back time and change the decisions he had made.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I dragged you into this. I shouldn't have made you come with us... this is all my fault..."

"Don't be silly," Anna said sternly, "Nobody makes me do anything. I chose to come of my own free will. Now stop talking and use that sword of yours."

Trotter turned back to the circle of enemies and braced himself. He found Beleg at his side, bow still in hand, though the Elfit had not yet let an arrow fly.

"Come on!" Beleg screamed at the ring of Goblins and Wargs, beside himself with inexplicable rage, "Bury and bloody you all! Morgoth take you!"

Abruptly, the dark ring fell silent.

Trotter frowned... but no, they had not stopped because of Beleg. For now, coalescing out of the dark, came a new horror. A Warg stepped forward from the ring. And suddenly, Trotter understood Beleg's anger, and understood the meaning of the cold voice he had heard.

This Warg was huge, more than twice as large as a wolf, nearly as tall as a man. His fur was pitch-black, and his eyes were red with black pools at the centre. Muscles rippled along his body. He bared his teeth in a snarl, spittle dripping from his black lips. A metal bar ran along his left paw; there was a great shining claw attached to it. It was a claw of mithril, precious truesilver – adorning the foot of a Warg. Trotter felt his own lip curl in horror and disgust, for he knew now whom they faced.

"Drekgreth!" Beleg spat.

Drekgreth the Iron Claw, Delcarch the Fang of Horror, King of the Wargs of Middle Earth, a black shadow, a herald of death, grinned a toothy grin of recognition at the Elfit. Then the great black Warg throw back his head and howled.

And in that moment, the enemy was upon them.

With a wordless cry, Trotter threw himself in front of Anna in the face of the oncoming wave. An arrow whistled by his ear, and a Warg yelped and crashed to the ground. More followed; Beleg's bow sang, and every shaft unfailingly found its mark. Nyéra flickered in Trotter's hands, gliding silently through Goblin and Warg alike. Black blood flowed, covering his hands, his face, his clothes. Teeth snapped at his face; he slashed with Nyéra, and a Warg's head rolled at his feet. Bent, hairy arms reached for him; he thrust with his sword, and the dying breaths of a Goblin exhaled putridly into his face. Horror blinked on and off in his mind. He had never killed anything before.

Like it had at the battle in Bree, time seemed to flow oddly. But instead of slowing down, this time it sped up to an almost ridiculous pace. Swords and teeth struck furiously about him, too fast to see. He moved by pure instinct, his thoughts a pool of stillness in the whirling madness.

Suddenly, he glimpsed a silver snake striking from his right. He tried to turn, but too slowly; the sword slashed mercilessly across his field of vision. Then suddenly a howl shivered through the din of the battle, and the blade disappeared. The Orc who had wielded it sailed through the air, sent reeling by a blow from Fimbrethil's many-fingered fist. The Entwife stormed through the writhing crowd around Trotter; Wargs and Goblins scattered before her. She raised her head and roared once, with a call like the voice of the mountains and the woods.

"Tree-killers!" she cried, "Axe-wielders! Fire-kindlers!"

"Fimbrethil!" Trotter cried, "Where are the others?"

She took no notice of him, striding on heedlessly. "Drekgreth!" he heard her calling, "Come out, you young black-heart!"

Trotter was about to follow her when a glint of gold caught his eye. He dashed toward it; but after a moment he froze in mid-step. He was sure he had seen it – the firelight shining on Anna's hair. But where was she? He spun around, searching the clearing. For a second, he thought he saw it again, but before he could be sure, his attackers were on him once more, now that Fimbrethil's threatening shadow had disappeared. It was all he could do to defend himself, and every other thought was driven from his mind.

And yet through it all he remained unscathed. The swords of the Orcs did not seem to reach him, and the Wargs' fangs turned aside. Nyéra locked with the blade of a Goblin; the creature stumbled away from him quickly. Suddenly he realized that the movement had been purposeful. They were not trying to kill him - they wanted to capture him. Desperately he thought of his mission to Gondor, of everything that had been said at the Last Council. If the Witch-King gained that knowledge... he tried to forget the thought and redoubled his efforts to defend himself. He was alone now; his companions had disappeared somewhere in the roiling night.

A curved knife flashed towards his heart silently. Trotter hurled himself away, falling to the ground. The world spun and jerked; faces swirled around him. Hands grabbed at him, tearing at his clothing and hair; bodies piled onto him, weighing him down into helpless immobility. He bared his teeth, gripping Nyéra's hilt, now slippery with blood, and cried a wordless cry.

But even as he howled his pain and anger, he was silenced by another cry, deeper and more fearful, filled with a pain so great Trotter nearly wept. Every movement stilled, and all heads turned toward it, shocked and spellbound.

A great light welled up to his right. Dread gripped his heart, but he could not stop himself from looking. Eyes wide, he raised his head and stared, horror filling him.

Fimbrethil stood some distance away from him, shaking, as she burned like a bonfire. Her cry of anguish echoed into the night, accompanied by the crackling of her own burning body. Her arms reached out, blackening as flames raced along them. Her hair charred and fell to ash, the little white flowers around her face mere wisps of smoke. Fire consumed her with ravenous hunger, and she howled like the wind in the trees, burning, burning, burning...

Taking advantage of the Orcs' shocked surprise, Trotter surged to his feet. Anna was nowhere in sight; he did not want to think what might have become of her. He glimpsed a movement out of the corner of his eye and almost shouted in joy – it was Beleg. But Trotter's momentary spark of happiness faded immediately. The Elfit had fought himself free of his enemies; as soon as he had gained some space, he threw himself at a dead run toward Drekgreth. His belt-knife glittered in his hand as he struck, straight and true, at the Warg King's heart. But Drekgreth lashed out with his paw, and his claws, harder than anything else upon earth, turned away the steel. With one bound, the Warg was upon Beleg, his mouth gaping in a grin of triumph and death.

Then Nyéra was torn from Trotter's grasp and hairy arms encircled him in a hateful embrace. Clinging hands found his throat, cutting off his breath; the scar on his neck ached. There was a rushing in his ears, and shadows flicked across his vision. He tried to struggle, but it was not enough. Weakness stole over his limbs, and as he fell to the ground and darkness closed in upon his mind, the last thing Trotter saw was the burned stump where Fimbrethil had stood.

A dark brew of dreams boiled in Trotter's head. He was jolting back and forth on a broken boat that was filling slowly with brackish water. A black sun rolled madly in the sky. Someone was laughing, but the laughter sounded like a fire crackling. The clang of steel against steel rang, and he thought he could hear Anna calling to him. Arrows hissed passed him, but they changed direction in mid-flight and hurtled back. Anna was calling ... Trotter... I chose to come... better me than someone else... I chose to come... Trotter! Trotter!

"But I asked you to... you followed me," he mumbled.

_Trotter!_

"My fault..."

_Trotter!_

"Trotter! Trotter, wake up!" A familiar voice was whispering in his ear. He blinked wearily, trying to see. There was blackness before his eyes... no, it was brown. He was lying facedown in the dirt. Trying to gain some sense of where he was, he turned his head and found himself staring into Anna's face.

"Anna!" he gasped, jerking in surprise, "You're not dead!"

"Shhh!" she hissed. She was gazing at him from under half-closed eyes, and her mouth hardly moved when she spoke. "They're watching," she added, voice barely audible.

Trotter lay still and tried to look around covertly. They were in the forest. It was daytime, but the sky was grey and overcast. There were two Wargs and an Orc within his field of vision; he guessed that the others were nearby. His sword was gone, and his hands were tied in front of him. They had fallen asleep and were tingling uncomfortably, but he didn't dare to move for fear of attracting unwanted attention.

"What happened?" he asked, "Where are we? How long...?"

"It's tomorrow," Anna whispered, "Or at least, the battle was last night. They carried us for a long time... I think northwards. Fimbrethil..." She grimaced.

"I saw," Trotter said sadly, "What about Beleg?"

"I don't know," Anna said miserably, "That big Warg leaped on him, and then I couldn't see anymore."

At that moment, two dirt-splattered boots thudded down before Trotter's nose. He jumped, then tried to keep still and act as if he were still unconscious. Too late – the Orc had seen his involuntary movement.

"Awake, are you?" it sneered, "Come on, little squirrel! Can't have the two of you chattering, can we? Come along with me now!" Trotter found himself hauled ungently to his feet and slung onto the Goblin's back. His bound hands were looped around its neck, and he dangled uncomfortably behind, like a child on a very unpleasant piggyback ride. There was a muffled shout behind him; it sounded like Anna. He craned his neck, trying to look back, but as it turned out, there was no need. His Orc whirled around with a snarl.

"What do you think you're doing, you dirty fool!" it hissed, "The bosses'll have your tongue for breakfast!"

Peering around the Goblin's shoulder, Trotter could see that another Orc had seized Anna and was holding her in the air by her collar, shaking her from side to side. She squealed and tried to kick her attacker, but the Orc was out of her reach. Finally she gave up, hanging exhaustedly in the Orc's grasp.

"I just wanted a look at it," the Orc whined in response to the other's question, "What's the big deal about such a little trinket, anyway? There are loads of better jewels in the hoards in the North City, I'll bet. Why can't I just look at this one?"

"The big boss wants it, that's why," Trotter's Orc said, "Look at it all you want, if your greed is stronger than your sense, but don't blame me when they burn your eyes out for it!" It laughed at its own joke. Trotter could feel the stringy muscles and malformed spinal chord heaving beneath him. He suppressed a shudder.

Suddenly, the Goblin stopped laughing and cringed. It trembled pathetically; and when Trotter saw the source of its terror, he trembled himself, though as much from anger as from fear. Silently as a plague, the King of the Wargs had slipped among the tiny company, and he did not seem pleased.

"Greetings, uh, your Clawness, I mean, your Fangship, sir," the second Orc said, dropping Anna unceremoniously and cowering away from the giant black werewolf. Drekgreth took no notice of the Goblin; he padded softly forward, huge paws leaving no print on the forest floor. His silver claw shimmered in odd contrast to the pitch-black fur.

Drekgreth stopped in front of Anna and bent his head to stare at her. She lay frozen on the ground, gazing back as if hypnotized, green eyes held cruelly by red. The giant Warg stretched out his right paw and placed it possessively on the Starflower, spilled silver onto the earth next to Anna's face. There was a sudden hiss, and with a surprised growl, Drekgreth pulled back his paw in a flash. He stared at the pads on the underside of his foot in disbelief; there was an angry mark there, in the shape of a seven-petal flower.

"What... what does it mean, great lord?" Trotter's Orc said, seeming surprised at its own courage in daring to ask such a question.

"Nothing," the Warg King replied. His voice was a deep growling rumble, like the ominous whisperings of an earthquake. "Nothing, except that the jewel will not allow itself to be taken against the bearer's will. But that is no obstacle." He grinned wickedly at Anna, showing a mouthful of hand-length yellow teeth. "Soon enough you will be only too happy to get rid of the little toy."

"I'll never give it to you," Anna said, flaring up in a sudden fit of anger, "I don't know what you want with it, or what the Witch-King wants with it, but as long as you desire it you'll never get it."

Drekgreth made a yowling sound that Trotter took to be laughter. "The Dark Lord gets everything he wants sooner or later," he said, "But the later he gets it, the angrier he tends to be. If you wish, you may hand over the necklace now, and you will be spared a lot of pain."

"I'm not afraid of pain," Anna said with a bitter laugh.

"Perhaps not," Drekgreth growled, "Pain may mean little to you. But what about your friends?" His burning red eyes turned to Trotter. "Will this one stand pain as well as you? Suppose he met the same fate as the tree-wench? Fire brings an unpleasant death..."

"No," Anna said, "You won't! No one would..." But the words were empty. Drekgreth would do whatever pleased him, and everyone present knew it.

"... If, on the other hand, you give me the necklace now, I may decide he is unnecessary, and let him go on his way."

Anna met Trotter's gaze frantically. He could read the question in her eyes: what should she do?"

"Don't listen to him!" he said, wondering if he was sealing his own coffin with the sentence, "He's lying anyway; he would never let me go. If the Witch-King wants the Starflower, keep it from him, whatever the cost."

"Poor, foolish Halfling," Drekgreth said softly, "Killing you will hardly be worth the trouble. But it will leave such a burden on your little half-breed friend's mind... after all, your death will be her fault."

But Anna had set her jaw and a stubborn light was in her eye. "Keep your pathetic threats to yourself," she spat, "I'll never give you what you want."

Drekgreth laughed his howling laugh. "You speak far too hastily," he said, "Wait and see; you may change your mind yet." He tossed his mighty head and howled, the ghostly sound cutting through the air. All around them, Wargs and Goblins appeared, apparently completely recovered after their rest.

"Bring them," Drekgreth said. Then he turned on his heel and loped away.

Trotter wondered bleakly how they were going to get out of this one as a sack was pulled over his head so that he could see nothing. A moment later, he felt his Orc straighten and leap onto the back of a Warg. The werewolf, bearing its twin burdens easily, sped up to a trot on the heels of the Warg King. He could not be sure of their direction, but guessed that they were on their way north, ever further into the lands of the Witch-King. As he blinked painfully in the darkness of the stuffy sack, Trotter reflected that could draw comfort from one thought, at least: Drekgreth had said friends. And that meant that Beleg was still alive.

Trotter was wondering if it wasn't just his imagination and they were really slowing down, when he was lifted in the air and tossed carelessly to the ground. They had travelled without rest until evening, or so he guessed; the air seemed cooler than it had during the day. He could scarcely move his stiff muscles; dangling behind an Orc was hardly comfortable. He rubbed his cramped wrists painfully as he lay in confused disorientation on the ground, trying to massage some feeling back into them.

Shouts and howls clamoured around him; there seemed to be a great deal of activity going on, though he could see none of it. He was just wondering if he really wanted to know what was happening, when his head was jerked up forcefully and the sack pulled off. He fell back immediately onto the earth, facedown, blinking in the sudden light. To his surprise, no one spoke to him or touched him; it was not until his eyes adjusted to the comparative brightness that he realized why.

Drekgreth and his company had halted in a small clearing. The sky was blanketed with dark rain clouds, and it looked as if they would have a wet night. The Orcs and Wargs, however, did not pay any attention to the weather; the Goblins proceeded to light torches in a ring around the clearing, as they had the night before. There was some grumbling from the Wargs at this – they did not like fire. But Drekgreth commanded it, and none of them dared to protest to his face.

Trotter lay on the bristly grass, looking around as inconspicuously as he could. He found that he could see quite well despite the dim light; the torches lit the evening. Anna was sitting a few feet away from him. She met his gaze silently, then made a tiny motion with her head. He followed the gesture and realized that a werewolf was crouching next to her watchfully; a guard, obviously. There was a Warg near him as well, and he had no doubt that his every movement was under close scrutiny. The rest of the Wargs were scattered around the clearing evenly, and there was a large cluster of them near a large tree at the north end, leaping and yipping happily. There were too many bodies in the way for Trotter to make out the source of their satisfaction.

Drekgreth sat calmly in the centre of the meadow, his wide back to Trotter and Anna. He seemed to be waiting for something. Trotter watched the King of the Wargs apprehensively; he had a bad feeling that Drekgreth had something very unpleasant planned. Suddenly, the great Warg howled once, shortly; then he barked and yelped a few times. Trotter supposed that he was speaking in the werewolf language. In any case, the other Wargs seemed to understand; as one, they drew away from the tree where they had been amusing themselves. As the black crowd dissipated, Trotter saw what had occupied them so.

Roped to the tree by bonds on his wrists, Beleg glared out at the assembled company. Had it not been for his familiar blue eyes, Trotter would hardly have recognized him. The Elfit's own clothes had disappeared, and he was dressed in grey Orc rags. His bow, naturally, was gone; his face was bruised and blood caked the side of his mouth. But it was not this that made Trotter stare in sympathy. Beleg's hair had been cut off jaggedly until it barely reached his ears, and it had been died jet-black. With rage hot in his eyes, Beleg looked almost like an Orc himself.

Beleg did not seem to have seen him or Anna. The Elfit's gaze wandered searchingly over the shadowy shapes outline by torchlight, until his eyes focused – on Drekgreth. His lips curled into a mocking snarl.

"So," he said, "Afraid to fight me yourself? I should've known you would only dare to face me with an army at your back, even tied hand and foot."

Drekgreth laughed. "Why would I want to fight you?" he said, "That would be far too easy. No, I have something much more entertaining in mind." He snapped at the air in satisfaction, red eyes flashing.

At that moment, one of the Orcs from the surrounding circle stood and made a cringing bow in Drekgreth's direction. Its shadow, cast by the firelight behind, wavered and twisted on the dark ground. "Do you command, great Claw?" it asked.

"As directed," Drekgreth replied with a grin. The Orc pulled two curved knives from its belt and flourished them lightly for the benefit of everyone watching. And suddenly Trotter realized what was going on; it was a show. The waiting Orcs and Wargs were the spectators, and Beleg was the feature attraction. Furthermore, if he guessed correctly, the whole thing was for their benefit; or, to be precise, for Anna's benefit.

The Orc took aim with over-exaggerated care, drawing sneering laughs from his audience. Then it hurtled the first knife. Beleg twisted away as the blade spun through the air and landed with a dull thump in the wood of the tree. It quivered there, an inch from his neck. The Elfit did not look afraid, but he could not help blinking reflexively. A moment later, the second knife followed, and this time he was too slow. It grazed his shoulder; blood welled up, soaking his sleeve.

"A poor shot!" Beleg said, "If all the Witch-King's servants are this clumsy, your war is already lost, be there ever so many of you!" He strained against his bonds, but in vain; he only managed to bloody his wrists with the effort.

"Patience," Drekgreth growled, "This is only the beginning."

The Orc retrieved his knives and sat down. His place was taken immediately by another of his kind, grinning in anticipation at his chance to join in the fun. But Trotter did not watch the throws this time; his attention was distracted by a Goblin sitting some distance to his left. The Orc was watching the spectacle with cruel delight, laughing and clapping its hands; but what interested Trotter was the sword buckled to its belt. The sight of the familiar sheath set his heart beating swiftly. It was Nyéra.

Trotter glanced around. No one was looking at him; they were all far too busy watching their victim. He caught Anna's eye. She looked frightened, unsurprisingly, but desperately angry as well.

"Distract them," he mouthed. She looked confused, so he repeated the silent sentence. Understanding flickered in her eyes, and she turned away from him immediately. He did not wait to watch what she would do.

As quietly and quickly as he could, Trotter lowered his head and began to bite at the cord tying his wrists together. He could not suppress a start at every loud noise – what if someone noticed him? What was Anna doing? He could not see more than a few feet of wet, dead grass before his nose; every Warg in the clearing could have been watching him, for all he knew. But luck was with him, and the enemy's own cruelty worked against them this time; they were all too occupied with Beleg to pay attention to him.

A roar from the Wargs distracted him momentarily. One of the knives had found its mark; there was a bleeding gash in Beleg's right side. The Elfit made a grab for the blade, but it was ripped out of his hand before he could use it. He shook his blackened head like an animal at bay, breathing heavily. Trotter feared that Drekgreth would continue the game until the Elfit was cut into pieces; but at that very moment the Warg King called a halt.

"Let's try something different, shall we?" he said slyly, "I wouldn't want you to tire of our little game. And we certainly don't want to finish you too soon. Suppose we bring on the whip for a change of scenery?" He growled something in the Warg language, and a smaller werewolf appeared with a long coiled whip in its mouth. The whip was handed over to the same Orc who had just finished throwing his knives; the Goblin seemed delighted at the chance to inflict more torture on his helpless victim. He flicked the whip once. A loud crack burst in the air. The Orc nodded in satisfaction and turned to Beleg, raising his arm gleefully. Beleg smirked at him insolently, as if to prove that not a shadow of fear crossed his mind.

"Stop! Stop!"

It was Anna's voice. The girl stumbled toward the Warg King angrily, bound hands clasped at her neck. She fell to her knees before the giant wolf, glaring up at him. Trotter stopped watching; he was too busy gnawing frantically at his bonds. But he could hear every word spoken as clearly as bells ringing in the morning.

"I'll give it to you," she said, "Let him go now and I'll give you the Starflower."

Trotter hoped desperately that this was Anna's distraction. She could not be earnest... could she?

Drekgreth's voice dripped with sarcastic satisfaction as he answered. "I knew you would see things my way in the end," he said, "It was only a matter of time. Loose him!" There were some vague tearing noises, followed by sharp crack.

"Stop it!" Anna shouted, "Don't hurt him anymore!"

"As you wish, little human," Drekgreth said, "Now... the necklace."

The last fibres parted between Trotter's teeth. He looked up just in time to see Anna lift the Starflower off her neck and hand it with trembling fingers to the Warg King. Drekgreth snatched it in his jaws, the silver glinting beside his teeth in the torchlight. He grinned.

"Thank you, my dear little human," he growled, "And as a reward for your cleverness, I will keep my promise; your friend has been spared the whip. But I'm afraid my brothers and friends here were rather excited about the show, and I could hardly disappoint them now." He stepped back, leaving Anna kneeling alone amidst the Wargs. "Enjoy yourself," he said mockingly.

Anna gazed wildly at the wolf-faces around her. "But I don't..." she said. Before she finished her sentence, the Orc with the whip leaped forward and struck her once across the face. The force of the blow hurled her onto her back, and she could only stare helplessly up as the Goblin cracked his knuckles in preparation for the next strike.

Drekgreth howled in mirth, raising the necklace triumphantly toward the sky. The surrounding werewolves echoed the call; but while the first notes were still welling in their throats, they stuck in surprise, and the sound choked and died. Beleg, momentarily forgotten after he had been freed, snatched one of the knives that had been aimed at him moments earlier from an Orc's hand, and leaped at Drekgreth in a flash. He was a picture of furious vengeance, and the Wargs and Goblins pulled away from him in surprised terror.

At the same moment, Trotter bounded to his feet and made a dash for his sword. Drekgreth's howl of rage and Anna's startled shriek rang through the night as his hands closed on Nyéra.


	14. Grey Skies

Trotter yanked at the scabbard as hard as he could. To his utmost dismay, nothing happened. Gulping, he looked up – into the smirking green face of the Orc to whose belt Nyéra was attached. The Goblin grinned in smug triumph, reaching with spidery fingers for the dagger on its other hip. In desperation, Trotter pulled once more, with all his strength. Suddenly, the leather belt snapped and he tumbled back, yelping. The Orc fell forward with a squawk, reaching for him, but its paws were too slow to catch a scurrying Hobbit.

Trotter rolled away and drew Nyéra, ready to fight despite the unfavourable odds. But there was no need; the Wargs and Goblins, though raising a horrific shrieking cry, made no move towards him. They had drawn back, forming a large circle – around Beleg and Drekgreth. The Warg and the Elfit were circling each other, apparently unaware of their surroundings. Drekgreth had dropped the Starflower and had his great fangs bared; the necklace had disappeared somewhere on the uneven ground.

Anna still lay stunned in the brittle grass, though her goblin tormentor had withdrawn with its companions. Hardly pausing to think, Trotter grabbed her hand and pulled her away, to the tree where Beleg had been bound moments before.

"Quickly," he said, pushing her against the rough bark, "Climb up!" It was a poor place of safety, but there was no better alternative. Anna, however, refused even this paltry protection.

"Beleg..." she said as if in a dream, staring past Trotter's shoulder.

Trotter gazed back apprehensively at the circling figures. He felt torn in two. What could he do? Part of him wanted to rush to his friend's aid; but this was not his battle, and he had the feeling that Beleg would not appreciate his interference.

"I call you to answer now for your deeds!" Beleg cried, his voice echoing across the clearing. The howling and shrieking of the watching Wargs and Orcs stilled suddenly. The torchlight swelled, as if flickering in answer to the challenge, feeding off the reckless words.

"For my father, Peric Deepdweller," Beleg continued, "And for every other innocent who has suffered under your claws!"

"You challenge me to a duel?" Drekgreth growled disbelievingly, "I remember you now, Elfling. What did I say then – that you would be unhappier alive than dead? It seems I spoke truly, for now you seek death as a refuge! Well, I am not unkind; I will grant your wish."

"I wish only to face you in an honest combat," Beleg said grimly, skin starkly pale under the smudges on his face. He looked small and frail, standing before the black tidal wave of muscle and fur, a slender whiplash facing a rolling boulder. Through the tears in his clothing raw cuts were visible; he was all grey raiment, white skin, black hair, robed already in death colours.

"Very well!" Drekgreth yowled laughingly, "You have your dagger, and I my claw. Let it be an honest combat!" He grinned for a moment in confident anticipation of a game he knew he would win. Then his powerful haunches bunched beneath him, and he sprang into the air, a dark bolt of claw and fang. But Beleg was too quick; the Elfit slipped away.

"You are grown old and slow!" Beleg laughed, "My aged grandmother was fleeter on her feet!"

"Perhaps she would have been," Drekgreth replied, "If I hadn't eaten her." And he leaped once more.

Then it began in earnest, and Trotter and Anna could only cower at the roots of the tree and watch. Again and again Drekgreth sprang at Beleg, snarling and howling as if he had gone mad. The air rippled with the force of the Warg's passing, and the ground trembled beneath his paws. Yet always Beleg dodged away, and his larger foe could not capture him. On and on it went, until Trotter wondered if neither of the two would ever tire; both were panting quickly, and sweat drew grimy trails down Beleg's face. And yet neither had touched the other.

Finally, Drekgreth paused, red eyes smouldering above his curled lips. "Why do you flee?" he spat, "Did you not wish to fight? Or has your courage left you already? It is too late to draw back now!"

"Afraid? Not at all," Beleg said, dagger glittering in his hand, "But when one is lunged at by such a clumsy behemoth, what is one to do? I wish to battle, not to be crushed by a wooden-footed obesity."

"Clumsy, you say?" Drekgreth said, "I have been too easy on you. We will see what good your stunted feet can do you now."

As suddenly as a lightning strike, he sprang. But this time Beleg did not dance away; he ducked beneath the giant Warg, and thrust upward with his dagger at the softer flesh. Drekgreth twisted away to avoid the blow, but too slowly; a long, shallow gash appeared on his abdomen. He howled, but had no time to vent his anger fully, for in the same moment Beleg struck again, aiming for the Warg's maddened eyes. But Drekgreth would not be caught twice; he swiped at the dagger with his great claw. Metal grated on metal; then the knife snapped, and Beleg stood defenceless before the Warg King. Drekgreth wasted no time in snapping after the Elfit with his greedily glistening teeth, and it was all Beleg could do to stumble away unscathed.

"It seems you have been robbed of your sting, my little wasp," Drekgreth said, "Will you laugh at death, Elfling?"

The Warg stepped forward, teeth bared, and in that moment Trotter saw his opportunity.

"Stay here!" he whispered to Anna, and dashed out of the protective shadow of the tree. He raised Nyéra, trying to aim carefully. Then he hurled the sword.

Nyéra hissed through the air, a black streak too fast to see, like a diving hawk. But even as he watched, Trotter's heart sank. The aim was bad. Instead of flying to strike Drekgreth's chest, the sword fell short, connecting only with the Warg's mithril-protected paw. Trotter cringed in expectation of the clang that would herald his failure.

It did not come. Nyéra struck the bands of truesilver that held the claw to Drekgreth's paw, and sliced through it without a sound. The thick shining wires parted; the claw fell to the ground, freed at last from its loathsome owner. For a moment Trotter could hardly believe his eyes – was his sword truly that powerful? He had thought nothing could cut mithril, nothing in the world. The thought occurred to him, forgotten for months now, that he knew nothing of the origins of Nyéra. What magic might be imprisoned in the black blade? An angry spirit, perhaps, thirsting for any blood it could get?

Drekgreth stared in disbelieving incomprehension at his scored and bleeding foreleg, devoid now of its accustomed protection. Making use of the moment, Beleg made a grab for the sword, but Drekgreth came to his senses in time and knocked the blade away.

"Robbed of your sting," Beleg said, staring up into the Warg's eyes with a fatalistic smirk, "And now of your life."

His fingers closed on the mithril claw, and he thrust upwards with it, driving it with all his strength into Drekgreth's breast. The Warg shrieked in surprised rage; then he snapped at Beleg. The long fangs found the Elfit's shoulder and closed tightly. But Beleg refused to let go; he held his grip on the claw, pushing relentlessly even as Drekgreth's fangs pierced his own flesh. Slowly, the Warg king's growls grew fainter, and his body began to sink to the ground. Finally he collapsed, crushing the much smaller Elfit beneath him.

Silence reigned in the clearing as every creature held its breath. Neither Drekgreth nor Beleg moved. Blood began to seep slowly from under the Warg's body. And then it became clear to everyone that the King of the Wargs was dead.

An ear-piercing howl rose from the assembled Wargs. They had been cheated of their victim, and now their own leader lay slain instead. In blinding fury, they turned on the one person they could take their anger out on: Trotter.

As one, the Wargs and Goblins made a collective leap for the empty-handed Hobbit in their midst. And as one, they stopped in their tracks, overtaken suddenly by a terrible doubt. For clear horns rang wildly among the trees, and from every side armed riders burst out of the surrounding forest.

Trotter remembered little of the ensuing battle except for a constant fear of being mistaken for an Orc and cut down, or trampled by a heedless horse. None of the strange Men who had overtaken them seemed to notice him, busy as they were with darker matters. He caught some glimpses of the attackers; they were not so tall and fair as the Dúnedain, and he guessed they were of another race of Men, less lofty and noble, but obviously not thanes of the Witch-King. They fought like demons nonetheless, with a hatred born of long suffering.

Through some lucky chance, he found his sword; then he tried to return to Anna. But when he reached the tree where he had left her, slipping and dodging around and under battling Orcs and Men and Wargs, she was gone. He turned to scan the writhing mass of armed enemies, just in time to catch sight of a long sword coming to behead him. He ducked reflexively, yelping in surprised desperation.

"Stop, stop! I'm not an Orc!"

He peered up at his attacker fearfully, but the rider made no further move to harm him. He was middle-aged, short and swarthy, with a black beard and squinting eyes. He rode a chestnut horse; it pranced nervously, impatiently, as the battle continued some distance away. The Man looked down at Trotter as if he could not fathom what he had found: a Hobbit among all these dark creatures.

"A Halfling!" the Man exclaimed, "We haven't seen your kind in years! A captive, are you?"

"Yes, I was," Trotter replied, beginning to hope that their fortunes had taken a turn for the better, "My name is Trotter Calacolindo; I come from the North. Who are you?"

"I am Mathwes Auricon, leader of the fighting men of Tharbad."

"Tharbad!" Trotter cried, "That's where we were headed – before the Wargs found us."

"'We'?" Mathwes frowned, "Are there more Halflings, then? Where are they? I am afraid some of my men might harm them mistakenly, thinking them Goblins."

"No, not Halflings," Trotter said, "But I have two companions. One was here, but she has disappeared. The other is on the battlefield somewhere, injured most likely – I must help him!" He made a move as if to run back into the middle of the clearing, but the Man stopped him with a gesture.

"Stay!" Mathwes said, "Do not move! I know nothing of you, and I will not let you out of my sight for now. You will have to wait and search for your comrade later."

By this time, the battle had died down to a few last Orcs who were mostly attempting to flee. Staring past Mathwes, Trotter could see that few of the enemy had escaped; the clearing was littered with corpses, visible in the light of the few torches that still burned. Anxiety gripped him as he wondered what had become of Beleg and Anna. He was about to run onto the field and look for them in spite of Mathwes, when two other Men galloped up and blocked his way. They were indefinite shadows in the dark night; most of the torches had been overturned and extinguished in the dirt, and the light was faint.

"Sir!" said the first rider, "We have routed the enemy! Their numbers were smaller than we anticipated, and we took them by surprise. It is very odd, sir... they seemed to have no will to fight, but yammered and scattered before us like sheep."

"That is because my friend killed their leader," Trotter interrupted, "Drekgreth, King of the Wargs. If the Iron Claw had been alive when your men arrived, your task would have been a great deal more difficult! And the Warg King's slayer is still there – somewhere – probably in need of help!"

The man stared down at him. "What is this? A Halfling?"

"Yes," Mathwes said, "He says he is from the North – the Wargs had taken him captive. It is a strange tale, and I know not what to think of it, nor what to do with him now that he is here."

"With your leave, sir," the other rider said darkly, "Do nothing with him, but leave him to find his way back to where he came from. There are no Halflings left in Tharbad, and we do not need any more refugees, even if they are just passing through. The times are hard enough without more burdens. Besides, he may be a spy, for all we know."

"Spy?" Trotter said indignantly, "I am no such thing! I am a messenger in the service of the King of Arnor, and you are obliged to aid me in his name!"

To his chagrin, all three men laughed. "The King!" Mathwes said, "What, the King of Arthedain? The old man sitting in his chilly castle while the Witch-King knocks at the gates? He has no power here, little fool. This is Cardolan, and only the three Lords rule here. Arnor no longer exists, no matter what your king believes."

Trotter could find nothing to say to that; it was all new to him. Suddenly, unforeseen and very unpleasant difficulties presented themselves – how could King Arvedui hope to defend Arnor if Arnor had already broken apart? Did the King know how much his influence had declined in the further reaches of Eriador? And what good was it to defeat the Witch-King when the battle continued among their own allies? Doubts crowded his mind, things he had never considered before. It seemed that matters were yet more complicated than he had expected.

Suddenly, he realized that the Men had been talking while he wandered lost in his own thoughts.

"Good!" Mathwes was saying, "Gather the men! We will return to the city tonight; I do not wish to stay long in these lands."

"Sir," said the other Man, "We found something else as well." He gestured to his companion, who had not spoken yet. The rider urged his horse forward, and as he came closer Trotter realized that he was not alone in the saddle. Anna sat in front of him, looking as grim as he had ever seen her. At the sight of her, Mathwes' eyes flew open.

"You!" he cried.

"Yes," said Anna, "Me."

"What?" Trotter gasped, shocked, "You know each other? Anna, what..." He trailed off as, at a sign from Mathwes, Anna's captor began to tie her hands. She put up no resistance, looking almost bored. Only a slight tightening of her lips gave away any emotion, and the unnatural shine of her eyes in the faint torchlight.

"What does this mean?" Trotter asked angrily, "You have a strange way to greet travellers! This is one of my companions!" He could feel his friends and their quest slipping away from him, and it was a most unpleasant sensation.

Mathwes' face darkened as he looked down at the Hobbit. "If this woman is one of your companions, then you are no friend of mine," he said, flicking his horse's reins as if to ride off, "You may fend for yourself, Halfling, and be glad that I do no worse than leave you here!"

"But – wait!" Trotter protested, "Why are you taking her? What has she done?"

"She is a murderess," Mathwes replied. He laughed as Trotter's jaw dropped in surprise.

"That's impossible!" the Hobbit said, "She is no such thing! I know her well – you have the wrong woman!"

"I do not," Mathwes said coldly, "And it appears you do not know her as well as you think. Be more careful of your choice of companions in the future!"

And with that, he called to his men, and the whole company assembled quickly and rode away into the trees, leaving Trotter alone on the battlefield.

Trotter stared after the disappearing riders numbly. He had thought they were saved, miraculously, beyond all possibility of rescue. And now Anna was a captive and Beleg... he didn't know where Beleg was. His companions were gone; he was alone. Their quest had crashed to dusty ruins. And yet that almost seemed trivial compared to what he had just heard. Anna, a murderess? It was impossible, it was preposterous. Anna would not even touch a weapon, how could she be... Then suddenly a strange realization burst upon him like a wizard's firework, along with a memory of a Man's words. Falathor's voice rang in mind – what was it he had said, at the Last Council?

_"...Lomin's child had been banished from the town for murder, and no one knew where it had gone."_

And it all made sense: Anna's appearance in Bree, her avoidance of Men, her fear of returning to Tharbad. It could mean only one thing: Anna was Lomin's child.

He wanted to deny the thought. Could one of his best friends really...? Had he misjudged her that much? Trotter had always thought of himself as a rather good judge of character. He had never understood before why many of the Big People considered Hobbits to be rather naive and trusting, if not downright slow. But now it seemed that all that was true, and that Men really were as untrustworthy as some Hobbits claimed. Was there any point in all this, then? A black bitterness stained his thoughts that he had never experienced before. What was he trying to save this kingdom for? It deserved to be destroyed. If the Witch-King and the Orcs were no better than the race of Men, at least they did not claim to be anything other than evil. And if Anna could be a killer... well then, what were truth and friendship and everything he thought he had been working to save? A dream that only his own people clung to?

He looked around at the silent clearing. A few torches still flickered; the night was an inky canvas sprinkled with fiery drops of blood. Trees towered around the little meadow, frowning like the walls of a morbid shrine. Strewn before his feet lay the evidence of a sporting game with death. It seemed oddly appropriate. Everything was a game... why had he taken it seriously? Men killed each other carelessly. And so did women, it seemed. One kingdom or another, what did it matter? He couldn't change anything anyway. He couldn't stop battles or make people be kind to each other. He might as well go home, or to the Shire, or far away to the Great River were many other Hobbits had fled to. He could find Beleg and they would go...

But even as the tempting thoughts whispered in his mind, another voice answered. It was the voice of a being wiser than he could guess at; wise enough to know that sometime on this journey he would falter, and would need a memory of words to guide him.

_"Sometimes the smallest person can make a difference."_

"Gandalf..." Trotter whispered wonderingly into the night, "But I didn't know this would happen. I didn't know Anna..." Before he could finish the painful sentence, another voice swam up out of his memory; one he had heard so many times before, and always trusted.

_"Not everything is what it seems."_

No, he decided suddenly, not everything was. Perhaps Anna was Lomin's daughter, but she could not help that; in fact, she could not even know. She believed herself an orphan still, as she had for years. And it would be unjust of him to judge her a murderess at a stranger's words. Trust and friendship had to start somewhere, after all, and if no one else would hold those ideals sacred then he would do it himself. In his heart of hearts, he told himself that Anna was not a murderer, that he had not misjudged her, and that if anyone wanted to say differently they would have to answer to him. Personally.

With that decision, Trotter felt his determination returning to him. His friends were gone, and he was alone, yes, but he was not helpless. He led their quest, and it was his task to pull them back together. He knew where he had to begin.

Trotter squared his shoulders. He picked up a torch that lay on the ground nearby, spluttering but still burning, and sheathed his sword. Then he stepped into the dark clearing to search for an Elfit among the corpses.

The cold, grey morning had already dawned when he finally found Beleg. Trotter's heart lightened with the weak autumn rays, seeming to shiver themselves under the gloomy clouds. He had searched for hours in the foul, bloody darkness, unable to distinguish even Drekgreth's bulk from the other bodies on the field. Only when the sky began to lighten was his search rewarded. It was not a pleasant discovery.

Beleg lay unconscious, still half-crushed beneath the giant Warg. Drekgreth's teeth were locked onto his shoulder, clamped shut even in death. The two of them made a twisted tableau: Beleg with his pale, delicate face, marked cruelly by suffering and exhaustion, held in a merciless embrace by what could have been a murderous piece of detached night. Trotter had great difficulty prying open the Warg's jaws, and when he saw the deep gouges in Beleg's flesh he had to fight a powerful urge to look away. The wounds were raw, an angry dark red in colour; they looked as if they had festered.

It proved a yet more difficult task to free his friend from the dead weight he lay under. Only after much pushing and panting did Trotter manage to move Drekgreth enough to pull Beleg out from beneath him. He was afraid that all the jostling would hurt the Elfit, but Beleg did not so much as mumble. He was far down in the depths of oblivion, beyond physical feeling of any kind.

Trotter half-dragged, half-carried the Elfit to the edge of the clearing, where the mostly dead grass was at least still clean, not fouled by the stench of blood. There he leaned Beleg against a tree and sat down beside him, trying to catch his breath and decide what to do next.

Beleg did not look very well, Trotter reflected unhappily. The Elfit slouched bonelessly against the grey tree trunk. Everything seemed grey, Trotter's mood most of all. The dreary sky lowered heavily above, looking like an overhanging blanket of dirty wet wool; the trees dripped with accumulated moisture as if weeping at the destruction that had taken place before them. A drop fell onto Beleg's face, sliding mournfully down the pale skin. It drew a clear path through the grime and blood; it could not, however, wipe away the livid bruises. The Elfit looked a good deal younger with his eyes closed and the caustic expression absent from his face. His face was a battlefield of misery now, distressingly white beneath his jagged charcoal hair. He could have been a statue, or a corpse, save for the barely visible rise and fall of his chest beneath the Orc shirt – and the blood. Beleg's garments were stiff with it, Warg blood and his own. Trotter grimaced; he could not even clean his friend's wounds without water. With that thought, he found that he was thirsty and hungry as well.

He was just wondering if he should go search for water when Beleg began to stir. The Elfit's eyelashes fluttered lightly as Trotter leaned closer, hoping he had not just imagined the movement.

"Beleg," he said, "Can you hear me?"

Beleg opened his eyes groggily, blinking at him with a blank expression. His gaze seemed unfocused, and his eyes unnaturally deep and dark.

"Beleg?" Trotter repeated cautiously.

Beleg's eyes wandered dazedly over the death-littered clearing, boxed in by grey trees and overcast sky.

"Who...?" he murmured, "What is... where is the gold and silver sleeper?"

"What?" Trotter asked, rather distressed at this nonsensical question, "What sleeper? You're awake now, no one's sleeping. You killed Drekgreth. The Wargs are all dead. Some Men came and..."

"...a lost star on earth, a star to guide me to the shining land," Beleg rambled on heedlessly, "One star like no other, a silver shell on the soft sand... for me... for me... footprints by the sea..."

"I don't understand you," Trotter said bleakly, shaking his head. Beleg was obviously delirious. Not that that stopped him from composing excellent, albeit somewhat indecipherable poetry, Trotter noted with a passing stab of wry jealousy. He wondered what he could do to help his friend. How serious was the Warg's bite? He had heard that werewolf fangs were sometimes poisonous. Was there an antidote? A cure? A treatment, at least? If so, how could he get his hands on it? He might be able to make inquiries in Tharbad, but the city was miles away, and he could not carry Beleg there. Nor did he dare leave the Elfit here alone. Trotter felt frustratingly helpless, and time was passing.

Finally, he decided to see if he could find any food or water among the ruins of the enemy camp. Orcs had to eat and drink as well, after all. He tried not to think about what kind of food Goblins would enjoy. At least there had been no sign of previous prisoners... most likely there wouldn't be any food that had once been sentient. So he hoped, anyway.

"Stay here," he told the oblivious Elfit unnecessarily before trotting back to the heart of the clearing. He stepped cautiously over the scattered bodies, trying not to look too closely at them: torn bundles of pasty flesh and skin, splattered with blood in shades of red and black. It made him shudder, but he kept on determinedly. A quarter hour of searching finally found him only a single unharmed water-skin, and no food whatsoever. It was better than nothing, he reflected as he headed back towards Beleg, but would not solve their problems for long.

As he clambered over the silent Wargs, trying to avoid noticing their sightless eyes and lolling tongues, a sudden shimmer shone in his eye, like the sun reflecting off a stream. He blinked, but it did not disappear; the silver spot remained, wavering on the ground beside the corpse of an Orc. Trotter stepped gingerly closer, bending down for a closer look. Then he gasped.

Trampled into the hard earth lay a silver necklace: the Starflower! Its delicate chain was mud-covered but unbroken, the white gem at the centre wanly beautiful. It looked forlorn, its glory ravished by the impervious violence that had passed around it. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, wondering about the silver shimmer he had seen. The Starflower lay dark and unimposing in his palm, devoid of any light whatsoever. It did not look magical, and yet Trotter shivered as he held it. It was an odd coincidence, finding the thing under the carnage. He put it into his pocket, resolving firmly to give it back to Anna when he found her again.

He straightened up and looked up at the sky worriedly. It looked like rain; the clouds were dark and the air had that moist bite he always associated with rainstorms. The thought depressed his mood even further.

"Well, Trotter," he said aloud to himself, "You've gotten yourself into a fine mess this time."

His voice sounded odd and out of place on the deserted field. He had the sudden feeling that the dead were listening, grumbling at this disruption of their already dubious peace. Shivers crept down his spine. The silence was absolute; it was a heavy silence that he hated, making him feel small and threatened. Even the trees looked sinister.

"I'm not doing anything!" Trotter said crossly to no one, "I'd leave this moment if I could!"

He jumped into the air and nearly fell ignominiously onto an Orc as a strange voice answered him. In a second his sword was in his hand and he crouched tensely, listening with held-back breath. His hair fell in his eyes; he pushed the strands away impatiently.

A howling, yipping sound broke the silence. It was not very loud, rising and falling like a person having a conversation with himself. It was unmistakably the voice of a wolf. And it was coming from the spot where Trotter had left Beleg.

All caution forgotten, Trotter sprang up and tore across the field, shouting as his feet flew. It was a rather foolish thing to do, as he recognized later; he could have run straight into any sort of danger, and in fact nearly impaled himself on his sword more than once in his frantic haste. But luck was with him, and in a very few seconds he arrived at the tree where Beleg lay and hurled himself thoughtlessly at the slinking shadow lurking at the Elfit's side.

A bundle of fur and sharp bones met his charge. Suddenly he found himself wrestling desperately with a wolf; teeth snapped before his face, nearly removing his nose, and wiry muscles writhed beneath him. But his excitement and pent-up fear made him strong, and within moments he had mastered the intruder. He held the wolf firmly pinned and slid Nyéra threateningly against its throat.

"Stop resisting," he said, "Or you can join the rest of your kind here!"

To his surprise, the wolf's struggles ceased and it relaxed limply, whining like an injured child. Trotter stared down at it, panting slightly.

It was not a particularly big wolf, he decided, nothing like Drekgreth. In fact, it didn't look much like a Warg either; its eyes were quite normal, without that demon fire he had grown to know all too well over the long hours among the Wargs. This wolf was rather skinny, with scruffy grey fur and a roguish air. It was whining and yipping at him enthusiastically. Trotter frowned and tilted his head to the side. Was it trying to talk to him?

"...Fate them forged a binding chain of living love and mortal pain... fairer than are born to Men...though all to ruin fell the world... yet were its making good, for this..."* He heard Beleg mumbling meaninglessly a few feet away. Trotter tried to block out the sound, as it was really not very helpful at the moment.

The wolf looked up at him owlishly and continued to yelp and bark. Trotter's hand wavered on the sword. If he listened closely, he almost felt that he could understand what the creature was saying. It made sense somehow... like words, like a language. As he listened, the strange sounds began to take shape, and comprehension dawned on his mind.

"Confound you, blasted Halfling!" it was saying, "Can't a poor chap even skulk around in peace anymore without being jumped by overgrown mice? Bloody fangs! I can't believe a Halfling's sitting on me!" It finished its rant in a tone of plaintive disbelief.

Trotter jerked back in shock, loosening his hold on the wolf. The animal slipped out of his grasp and pranced some feet away, but it did not flee. Instead, it sat down on its thin haunches and looked at him wryly with its big golden eyes. It was fairly long, but too slender for its size; obviously its meals had not been as regular as it might have wished. Its coat was rather ragged, like a cloak that has been worn for far too many years. But it looked at him with shining intelligence... and an expression of blatant boredom, liberally mixed with amusement.

"Well, that's better, isn't it?" it said, "Thought you were going to shear me like a sheep for a moment there. Having a bad day, are we? A bit on edge? Not that I can blame you, with this kind of bloody weather." It glared darkly at the clouds, narrowing its eyes as if it had some secret vendetta against the wind and sky.

"Pardon?" Trotter said, wondering if he had heard right or was just imagining that he could understand the wolf, "Did you just make a comment about the weather?"

The wolf blinked slowly. "You understand my speech?" it asked wonderingly, momentarily surprised out of its moodiness. Then its insolent manner returned. "Of course I did – don't all civilized people converse about the weather?"

Trotter refrained from mentioning that very few of the civilized people he knew had four legs and glowing golden eyes.

"Who are you?" he asked instead, thinking it was probably the safest and most neutral thing to say under the circumstances.

Apparently he was mistaken. The wolf narrowed its eyes, making its glare even more concentrated and disturbing.

"What's it to you?" it said, rather rudely, Trotter thought.

"Well," he replied acidly, "I did just refrain from killing you, even though I could have done so quite easily. You owe me your life in a very real sense, and I believe the least you could do is answer a few harmless questions in return."

The wolf deflated. Its head drooped and its ears twitched. Trotter watched them flick back and forth, mildly fascinated.

"Oh, I suppose you're right, at that," the wolf muttered finally, "Harmo Code of Conduct, Rule 57: Always repay favours, especially life-saving favours. Wouldn't want to go against the old Code, would I?"

"Certainly not," Trotter agreed, "It sounds perfectly respectable, whatever it is."

The wolf grinned smugly at him, showing rows of uncomfortably pointy teeth. "Not really. Rule 58 is 'If at all possible, put off the repaying of favours until after eating the claimant.'"

Trotter gripped the hilt of his sword reflexively, his breath catching in his throat. But the wolf only rolled its eyes as if to say, "What a pathetic rodent," and he realized that this must be the animal's idea of a joke. A rather worrying joke for the listener, admittedly.

"Well," Trotter said firmly, "Now that we've agreed that you are in my debt, allow me to repeat the question: Who are you?"

"Well, I'm a wolf," said the wolf unnecessarily, "Not a Warg, in case that's what you were afraid of. My name is - " here it spit out a garbled sound that Trotter decided must be its name. It sounded like a mixture between a short howl and a loud growl, which was unsurprising, considering the nature of the person in question. He tried to get his tongue around the unfamiliar sound in an attempt to repeat it.

"Raaa....ooouu... Rooww... Raoul?"

"Good enough," said the wolf long-sufferingly.

"Right," said Trotter, "What are you doing here?" He narrowed his eyes. "Coming to eat us?" he asked suspiciously.

"Don't be ridiculous," Raoul said dismissively, "If I wanted to eat you, you would be a very tasty cutlet by now. In my stomach, I should add. No, I was just...passing by. I smelled death. So I came to investigate. There are some of my kind here..."

"Yes, I know," Trotter nodded, "They were the Witch-King's servants. Wait a minute... do you belong to the Witch-King?"

"I don't belong to anyone," Raoul snapped, "I'm a wolf. But no, I am not a servant of the Black Captain, if that is what you mean. Are you?"

"Me? No!" Trotter said indignantly.

"Not surprising," Raoul remarked, "I wouldn't have anything to do with you either, if I were him." He hunkered down onto the ground, eye-to-eye with the Hobbit. Trotter stared back fiercely; grey eyes met golden, and neither was willing to look away. Then Raoul grinned, showing his impressive row of shiny teeth.

"Relax," he said, "I'm not going to eat you. Harmo Code of Conduct, Rule 94: Never eat someone whose name you know." He paused. "Of course, for that to be technically effective, you would have to tell me your name..."

"Trotter," said Trotter immediately, "And that's Beleg." He pointed at the Elfit, who was still slumped against the tree trunk some feet away.

"...two cups of flour, a cup of sugar, and don't forget the pinch of cinnamon," Beleg mumbled, waving a hand vaguely in their direction.

"Is it?" Raoul asked in a tone of polite interest, "How very fascinating. Your company is just getting odder and odder, and I do believe I'm going to leave right about...now," he got to his feet, "And find someone else to talk to. Preferably myself, as no better company exists in this world."

"Wait!" Trotter said. A sudden idea had presented itself to him; he had thought of a way to get to Tharbad, with Raoul's help. Since the wolf now owed him his life, logically he would have to repay the debt somehow. And Trotter knew just how it could be done.

"Does the Harmo Code of Conduct justify leaving in the middle of a conversation?" Trotter asked, "That doesn't seem very civilized to me."

"Your kind lives in holes in the ground," Raoul said, "What would you know about being civilized?"

"I know that when someone saves your life or spares it, you have a debt that you have to make up. And coincidentally, I'm rather in need of help right now. My companion and I need to get to Tharbad immediately. He's ill and I have to find a healer for him."

"What do you want me to do?" Raoul asked, "I could put him out of his misery, I suppose, if you wanted me to..."

"No!" Trotter said hastily, "That won't be necessary. I want you to take us to Tharbad. Both of us. Now."

Raoul sat down with an irritated thump. His fur bristled. "You want me to carry you to the Man-dwellings?"

Trotter nodded, trusting that "Man-dwellings" meant "Tharbad" to a wolf.

Raoul sighed, half a yowl. "Couldn't you have made it something conventional, like eating your worst enemy or something? If anyone sees me with two... humans... on my back, I'll never live it up. It would be the end of my reputation!"

"No revenge eatings," Trotter said firmly, "We want to go to Tharbad. If you take us there, we'll be even."

Raoul eyed him. "Just to the Man-dwellings? Then I can go on my way and forget I ever met you?"

Trotter shrugged. "If you want. I can't say it really matters to me if you forget me or not."

Raoul seemed to ponder for a moment. His fur blended into the grey forest, so that if Trotter half-shut his eyes the wolf looked like nothing but two disembodied shining eyes, like miniature suns. It was a disturbing sight.

"Very well," Raoul said after a minute, "I will do as you ask. Let us start now! I don't want to have to smell Halfling any longer than is necessary."

Trotter stood up and pulled Beleg to his feet. He nearly collapsed under the Elfit's weight; Beleg gasped in pain, his black head lolling drunkenly. He grabbed at Trotter unsteadily.

"Anna..." he mumbled, "Where is she?"

"We're going to see her right now," Trotter said as reassuringly as he could. He turned back to Raoul, who was watching them rather sceptically. "Can we be on our way?"

The wolf shook himself impatiently. "I was only waiting for you. Just be sure not to pull my fur."

A few minutes later, Trotter, with Beleg in a state of semi-consciousness before him, rode out of the clearing on the back of a wolf.

 

Anna was far too angry to care about the stares people kept sending her way. In fact, she could not remember ever being this furious before in her life. And the fact that it was herself she was angry at didn't help at all.

The horse jolted disconsolately along, doing nothing to improve her mood. She studiously ignored the Man seated behind her; they had had more than one argument, or rather, shouting match since the night before, and her throat was too sore to begin again. He, like every other member of the company, looked at her with a mixture of angry contempt and smug satisfaction. She could almost hear the thoughts creeping through their heads: We've finally caught you, oh yes, you little wench! There's no escape this time... no mere banishment... death awaits you...

They had all glared at her with that poison in their eyes, throughout the long night ride to Tharbad. The country was familiar to her; she remembered endless days spent in these woods, when she had fled from the putrid streets and their dark corners. No one had ever noticed her much; any stray glance she caught was usually merely dismissive. Still, that was far better than the vengeful hatred and the infamy that came later.

She hunched forward over the horse's neck, trying to withdraw back into the hood of her cloak. The streets were more crowded than she remembered; probably filled by the droves of refugees that had fled from what had once been the east march of Arthedain, the area surrounding the East Road, now controlled by the Nine-Fingered Captain. The buildings were all of wood: houses, taverns, shops, brothels, guild headquarters, storehouses, and cafes. It was a rare structure that didn't lean dangerously in some direction or other. The streets, filthy with choking dust in summer, had turned to cold, sticky mud in the autumn moisture. The whole city seemed like an oozing sore to her, a teeming hive of disgust.

"Look, do you see..." she heard someone say. She glanced toward the voice out of the corner of her eye. It was a young woman speaking, pretty, her head wrapped in a brown shawl. She was pointing a dirty finger at Anna and whispering excitedly to a young boy at her side. Anna's lip curled. Not everyone knew her by sight, but those that did would waste no time in pointing her out to their acquaintances for maximum effect. She was, after all, Anna Applethorn, and it was common knowledge that she had been banished – under the condition that if she ever showed her face in Tharbad again it would mean death. It made for a good story, and heralded an entertaining execution to follow. No wonder excitement sparkled in their eyes.

Anna closed her own eyes briefly, but opened them again after a split second. She was dead tired and she ached everywhere, but worse than any physical pain was the twisting knot in her chest. She felt cheated and guilty and heart-broken all at once. Even with her eyes open, she could see the expression on Trotter's face when Mathwes had proclaimed her a murderess. His familiar face, marked with shock, his soft grey eyes finding hers, filled with horror and disbelief and... something she could not make out. He had looked so forlorn, with his sword limp in his hand, his hair rumpled from running, his pale face very white in the darkness. He looked as if he had suddenly been struck blind.

She bit her lip, holding back tears for at least the tenth time. It wasn't fair. He was her friend, the only person in the world who truly understood her. The only person who believed in her, who trusted her... well, maybe Beleg trusted her as well, but it wasn't the same as with Trotter. Trotter was the only person she had ever known who accepted her simply as herself. And with that one sentence, Mathwes had destroyed it all. She knew Trotter too well – knew how he would start back in shock, in horror that he had associated so closely with a criminal. Not just a criminal, a killer. She had lost him beyond a doubt. The thought felt like two iron hooks sunken into her ribcage, tearing her apart with agonizing slowness.

And it was all her own fault, as usual. The bitter taste of guilt nearly choked her. She had been so foolish, letting herself soften, letting her guard down, letting herself love. She had hoped that she could leave her whole life behind her, in the narrow, stinking streets of Tharbad. But you couldn't leave yourself behind, no matter how much you tried; you couldn't just cut out your own malformed heart and expect to solve the matter. She had known all along, somehow, that she couldn't hide behind this facade forever, pretending to be so innocent and misunderstood, when there was really no misunderstanding at all. It was true about her, everything they said, and she knew it quite well. But it had been nice to forget for a while, to be the quiet, gentle person Trotter thought she was.

Anna could not help sighing, a halting, gasping sound with a whisper of a sob in it. She smoothed the horse's mane beneath her; it reminded her of the horses they had seen on the plains. It seemed like that had all happened very long ago, that short week of freedom when it had been only the three of them under the wide skies. She didn't regret the journey; in fact, in her memory it shone as the brightest part of her short life. At least she had that much, to soften the moment when they finally killed her.

The company was drawing near the river; she could smell the sluggish, polluted water of the wide, sullen Greyflood. In summer more mosquitoes than people inhabited the city quarter by the riverside, but winter eased that discomfort, at least. Soon they would cross the bridge, over to the less slummy half of Tharbad, where the halls of the three Lords were. The courthouse and gaol stood there as well, along with the scaffold, stocks, and pyre.

Anna stared dismally at the sprawling city, the drunken houses staggering blindly to near collapse at the side of the slimy-looking water. If the Witch-King founded a town, she decided, it would look like this.

Suddenly her breath caught in her throat, and she had to clamp her lips shut to keep from gasping in shock. Her hands tightened convulsively on the horse's mane. Quickly she cast her face down, staring dumbly at the ground. Had she really seen...? That face in the crowd... was it him? And, oh Eldar, had he seen her?

Her hands trembled uncontrollably. If he had recognized her, he would know everything immediately. And that meant she wouldn't be the only one with a death sentence hanging over her head.

 

Trotter tried miserably to stay awake, crouching over Beleg with his fists clenched in the bushy fur at Raoul's neck. The Elfit had been completely unconscious for hours now, and he was worried. Beleg was still breathing, but Trotter could feel his pulse racing and the heat rising from his frozen-looking skin. Raoul was as good as his word; the wolf ran tirelessly with a loping, fluent gait. He hoped it would be enough.

"Don't pinch!" Raoul yipped over his shoulder, "How many times have I told you already?"

"Sorry," Trotter mumbled, loosening his grip somewhat. Wolf-riding was not comfortable, as he had realized very quickly, and he was plagued by a constant fear that both he and Beleg would fall off and Raoul, annoyed already by his passengers, would merely run on and leave them, no matter his strict code of honour.

They had ridden through the day, and evening was drawing close once more. It had grown colder; Trotter shivered so continuously that he no longer noticed the shudders. The trees had grown thinner around them, and now and then signs of habitation popped up in the forest: a lonely cabin or the deserted remains of a carriage. Almost as bad as the cold and worry, however, was the sheer exhaustion that weighed on him. His head kept drooping, until he finally started up again nervously, trying to shake off the fatigue. Finally, Raoul, who was apparently not as prickly as he made himself out to be, had taken pity on him and begun to talk, which amazingly did not seem to impede his running at all.

"I'm a Northern wolf," he had said, "But the North is no good anymore, not even for my kind. The Black Captain has been drafting all our youngsters into his armies for years now; I suppose he thinks that just because we have fangs and don't twitter, we must be dark creatures. It's pretty rough for a wolf in the Black Hordes – the Wargs lord it around, thinking they're so high and mighty just because they have dirty fangs and their eyes glow red once in a while. All cheap tricks, I tell you! Ha! I'd like to see one of them run from Carn Dûm to the South Downs without a rest!"

Trotter had asked, wonderingly, if Raoul had come all the way from Carn Dûm. The question seemed to please the wolf, or maybe it was just the tone of admiration Trotter expressed it in.

"Yes, straight from the Fortress itself! I was in the Hordes, you see, but I'm not much for fighting. Only kill if you're hungry, I say, and so does the Harmo Code of Conduct, so it must be true. I snuck out one night, under the noses of the Wargs – guess their eyes aren't much good except to look fierce – and high-tailed it south. Tried to take a chum or two with me, good blokes, but the sentries got 'em, blast their tails! They're hard on deserters, you see. Counts as treachery. That's why I'm on the road – figure I'll find a spot of forest somewhere or a bit of plain and start a pack. When I smelled a wolf-pack I thought I might find someone to join me – instead a found a dead heap of Wargs with a Halfling sitting on top!" He had growled a laugh at that.

Trotter was startled back to the present when Raoul began to slow. The wolf reduced his pace to a trot, finally coming to a complete halt, his long red tongue hanging out of his mouth.

"What's the matter?" Trotter asked, "Why are we stopping?"

"We're there," Raoul replied, "See, there's the Road. Just follow it into the city." He pointed with his nose, and Trotter realized that he was right; he could see an open space beyond the trees. He pushed Beleg off Raoul's back as gently as he could and tumbled after. The two of them lay side by side on the wet mould.

"My thanks for your help," Trotter said, sitting up and stifling a yawn.

"Not at all, not at all!" Raoul said, "We're even now. No need to thank me! Harmo Code of Conduct, Rule 32: There's no room for sentimentality in business." The wolf's golden eyes laughed down at him. "May you find your pack, Trotter the Halfling!" he said. Then, shaking his shaggy coat, he loped away into the trees, blending into the grey lowering evening until he disappeared as if he had never been.

"Farewell," Trotter said softly, watching the empty woods where Raoul had been. Then he sighed and dragged himself to his feet. Beleg lay crumpled where he had fallen. Trotter caught his breath at the sight; Beleg had been in front of him the whole day and he had not been able to see the Elfit's face. That was probably a good thing, he reflected. Beleg seemed to have lost half his body weight in the last twelve hours: his cheekbones stood out sharply, and dark shadows lined his closed eyes. Trotter had a bad feeling that if he didn't do something quickly, his friend would be dead before a new day dawned.

He drew Beleg's arm around his shoulders and stood up under the Elfit's weight. His guess had not been far off; Beleg was far lighter than he had been that morning. It was as if the wound and fever were burning him away. Still, he was more than a head taller than Trotter, and trying to carry him was awkward. It was only with much effort that he managed to drag Beleg over the wet forest floor to the road. He halted there, panting, beginning to feel desperate. He couldn't lug his friend all through Tharbad looking for a healer and an inn. There had to be a better way. But try as he would, nothing came to mind.

"Valar, Beleg!" he muttered, "I wish you would wake up, just long enough to get into the city!"

"I doubt he can hear you."

Trotter yelped and nearly sent both himself and his burden crashing to the earthy road. He staggered, gripping Beleg to prevent the Elfit from sagging to the ground, and looked around wildly for the person who had spoken.

From the opposite side of the road, a shadow melted out of the dusky trees. A slim, grey-cloaked figure glided toward him, lithe and gloomy as a rain-spirit. No sound of footsteps broke the stillness. The air seemed strangely liquid and time stretched out fluidly as he watched each step. Then the hooded figure bent down and he found himself looking into an oddly familiar face.

"May I be of assistance?"


	15. Driven to Dark Deeds

Trotter dodged nimbly through the crowd, taking advantage of his small stature to slip quickly past the vehicles and pedestrians peopling the streets. Before him a slender shape glided unconcernedly on, somehow managing to remain untouched by mud and filth.

The woman had named herself Tirwen, taken Beleg from his shocked arms, and commanded him self-assuredly to follow her. He had obeyed, trailing behind her into the maze-like city of Tharbad. The odd feeling of familiarity had not left him, and yet he could not quite decide if he had met this woman before. He was almost certain that no, he had never seen her in his life – but her face, even hidden as it was under a deep hood, tweaked persistently at his memory.

He had been worried at first that it might seem suspicious, a woman supporting an unconscious man. After a few moments in Tharbad, however, he realized that the sight was not uncommon – he had already spotted several other women, dragging their presumably inebriated husbands home. In fact, he himself drew more curious looks than his guide – apparently Hobbits really had become a rare sight in Tharbad.

Trotter started out of his thoughts when Tirwen turned into a narrow alley and knocked lightly on a low door.

"Where are we...?" he began, but she silenced him with a gesture. A moment later the door opened and she ushered him in, following quickly with Beleg.

The first thing Trotter noticed was a powerful smell pervading the air. The room was dark, but even so he could guess that they were in a healer's house. Odours of various herbs, some familiar, some unknown, assaulted his nose. A second later a candle flamed to life, and the shadows leaped back, revealing a small, plainly furnished room crowded with bundles of dried herbs dangling from the ceiling. After lowering Beleg onto a low bed before a fireplace at the far wall, Tirwen turned to peer up a narrow staircase beside the hearth.

"Ianna!" she called, "I've brought you a patient!"

Bare seconds later, an immaculate, grey-clad middle-aged woman sallied down the stairs, a candle brandished in her hand.

"What's this?" she frowned, "Cat out of the alley? This time of night?"

"The sun hasn't set yet, Ianna," Tirwen said with an air of unruffled patience, "This one's got Warg poison in his blood. Can you help him?"

Ianna strode to the bedside and examined Beleg critically. "There should be some wolfsbane around here somewhere," she muttered to herself, "I'll see what I can do." To Trotter's surprise, she did not ask who Beleg was or how he had come to be bitten by a Warg. She took no further notice of Tirwen or Trotter at all, bustling about stoking the fire, heating water in a cauldron, and searching through her bundles of herbs.

Tirwen motioned Trotter to sit at a small table by the door, joining him gracefully.

"Your friend has been sentenced to burn at the stake before the East Court tomorrow at daybreak," she said with no preliminary, ignoring Trotter's surprised start.

"How do you know...?" he asked hastily.

She waved the question away. "I know who you are. We had word of your errand."

Unlikely as he found this, Trotter thought it wiser to accept her explanation for now. Besides, he had other, more pressing issues to deal with.

"How can I stop it?" he asked, surprised at the determination in his voice.

"I doubt you can," she replied with mild sympathy. A moment of silence reigned between them, broken only by Ianna's mutterings in the background. Trotter stared unseeingly at the rough tabletop.

"How did it happen?" he asked finally, quietly.

Tirwen stirred uncomfortably. "I hear only the rumours," she said almost apologetically.

"Tell me," Trotter insisted.

"Last year..." Tirwen began, hesitation heavy in her voice, "It was in the spring, I think. The Greyflood is high in that time, sometimes breaking over its banks. One week the waters flooded the lower city quarters. Many people fled to higher ground, but the Three Lords sent Guardsmen to check the houses and make sure no one of consequence remained trapped there. It was Mathwes, the Commander of the Guard, who found them... in the second story of an emptied inn. The body of a man named Telpedur, brother to the First Lord. He had been stabbed repeatedly with a dagger of Dunlendish make. Beside him Mathwes found your friend, Anna Applethorn, with the murder weapon in hand. Understand," she leaned closer, staring unblinkingly into his eyes, "she did not deny that the deed was hers. In Tharbad, the Lords rule supreme, and to cross them merits severe punishment. To murder a member of a lordly family is unforgivable. The only reason Anna was banished instead of executed immediately was her youth. The sentence stipulated implicitly that should she ever return to Tharbad, no further mercy would be extended toward her."

"But that doesn't make sense!" Trotter said, brain whirling. Something about the story didn't seem right to him. "It can't be!" he continued, speaking more to himself than to Tirwen, "what about... why was this Telpedur in an evacuated house? What was Anna doing there? And... why would she want to kill him? Anna isn't like that! It doesn't make sense!"

"I might agree with you, if it would make a difference. If there is no motive, there is only too much evidence... she had the dagger in her hand, and she herself was bloody. How can one argue? She did not herself."

"But I can," Trotter persisted.

"You are valiant," Tirwen seemed melancholy for a moment, but then her eyes flared up and her voice strengthened again, "Valiant, but foolish! Much as you care for your friend, you do not have time for this. It is already November. The year draws to its end, and still Arnor stands in peril... you must deliver your message! Leave here tonight, alone. We will care for your companion. Remember, sometimes one must sacrifice to win. One life is nothing beside the horror that will result if the Witch-King has his way! Do you not know it yourself?"

Trotter stared at her apprehensively. "Who are you?" he whispered.

"Merely a woman who speaks when she should be silent!" Tirwen laughed dismissively, "the question is: who are you? What will you choose, Hobbit? The greater or the lesser evil? Think carefully!"

"Neither!" Trotter said stubbornly, "Both Anna and Arnor will live, if I have anything to say about it! Tomorrow the sentence is to be carried out? Where is she now? How can I find her?"

"I would dissuade you from this... but it is never wise to oppose a noble impulse. I would think she is in the East Gaol, on the far side of the river."

No sooner did Tirwen finish than Trotter leaped to his feet, knocking his chair back with a loud clatter. Ianna glared at him from where she stood stirring a bubbling cauldron and muttered something he didn't bother to listen to.

"You will help Beleg?" he asked, only waiting for Tirwen's nod before turning to the door.

"Wait!" she called after him, "How will you...?"

But he was already outside and running down the street, his feet blindly following the path downhill, to the river, to the bridge, to the gaol, to Anna.

 

Tirwen watched the Hobbit disappear in the thinning evening crowd, delicate lines creasing her brow. "How will you get in?" she muttered, shaking her head.

"That's about done it," Ianna said behind her, sounding very satisfied. Tirwen glanced back to see her older companion filling a cup with light brown, tea-like liquid from the cauldron. The healer knelt at the bedside and, dipping a small cloth into the liquid, began to wash her unconscious patient's face and wounds.

"Will he live?" Tirwen asked.

Ianna nodded peremptorily. "He's in my care now," she said by way of explanation. "But he will always carry the scar..." she added after a moment.

"What brings them to me, like this?" Tirwen whispered as she leaned against the doorframe, barely aware that she was speaking aloud, "and what must I do?"

"If I were you, I'd close that door," Ianna remarked, "the draft won't do much good for this fellow."

Tirwen's lips twitched. "Very well. I will close it behind me."

Ianna glanced up, startled. "You're going out? It's already dark!"

"There's something I have to see to..."

"Young people these days!" Tirwen heard Ianna mutter behind her as she slipped out into the evening.

It took her only a few minutes to find the inn. The winding streets of Tharbad were still mostly strange to her, but everyone knew the Gilded Wasp. Its yellow roof towered above the surrounding buildings like an oversized dandelion. The Wasp might have been elegant in another town, but in the labyrinthine sty of Tharbad it merely came across as pompous and gaudy. This very quality attracted customers like rats, forcing Tirwen to push her way through the noisy crowd in the common room to the counter.

"Innkeep!" she called, leaning against the stained wood and trying to ignore a heavily-bearded and almost certainly intoxicated merchant who was eyeing her rudely.

"What d'you want?" the thin, hairless man behind the counter snapped, his hands busily filling three glasses with ale.

"I'm looking for Lord Falathor."

The innkeeper glared at her suspiciously, his bald head reflecting in the liquor glasses shelved against the wall behind him. Sweat trickled down his skin; it was hot in the common room, despite the chill outside. Tirwen repressed an urge to wrinkle her nose. Instead she fluttered her eyelashes as innocently as she could and smiled prettily.

"What do you want him for?" the innkeeper asked in a slightly more civil tone.

"He sent for me," Tirwen replied in a tone of perfect surprise, "didn't he inform you?"

"No," the innkeeper said, grinning insolently, "though by the looks of you I don't blame him for not wanting to share! Any more like you at home?"

Tirwen was briefly tempted to offer to introduce him to Ianna, but decided the amusement wouldn't be worth the scolding the older woman would give her.

"That depends on whether you mind sharing or not," she said instead.

The innkeeper laughed uproariously, spilling ale over his hands. He wiped them on his apron, leaving amber streaks behind and making him look almost like a wasp himself. "Good girl!" he grinned, "Go on up... it's room seven!"

With a last teasing wave, Tirwen threaded her way around a group of singing shiploaders ("My ship may be modest, but she's got a big mast!") and hurried up the staircase to the second floor. The hall was empty, as most of the guests were downstairs enjoying themselves.

She paused in front of a door marked with a tarnished number seven and glanced up and down the hall. There was no one to see her if she chose to turn back now... she gazed at the rough door, lined with cracks and splinters, dented were drunken customers had knocked into it in the past. Then, with a sudden, quick movement, she knocked, and without waiting for an answer, walked inside.

The young man hunched over the small table in the middle of the room looked up, startled. When he saw her, his one eye grew round as the moon and his mouth dropped open. He started up, grabbing at the tabletop, a thunderstorm of emotions flickering over his face.

"I...Indithel!" he spluttered, "What in the name of the Valar are you doing here?"

Indithel, regretfully laying aside the persona of Tirwen, rested one stately hand against the doorframe and smiled. "Hello, Falathor. Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Glad?" Falathor choked out, eyes riveted to her face, "I... what... you're supposed to be in Fornost! This city is dangerous! What are you doing here?"

"I followed you, of course," Indithel said artlessly, "I couldn't bear to be parted from you for so long!"

Mastering himself somewhat, Falathor gazed at her doubtfully. "Oh, really? That wasn't the impression I got at our last meeting."

"Oh, that!" Indithel yawned, "I can't believe you still remember that! Now really, it isn't fair to hold a grudge against a friend! I am still your friend, I hope?"

"Yes, of course... " Confusion replaced suspicion once more, and Falathor, red-cheeked, fell silent.

"And friends must visit each other!" Indithel prattered on, "And they may not forsake each other so easily. You didn't think I would let you ride away, just like that? I had to follow you! And I..."

"Indithel," Falathor interrupted quietly, folding his arms, "What is happening here? You didn't follow me. Your father would never allow it. Does he even know you're here?" he finished suspiciously.

"Oh, don't tell him!" Indithel cried, one hand flying to her throat in shock, "I told him I was going with the rest of the ladies to Lindon, where it's safe. You mustn't tell! You see, the truth is..." her voice dropped to a whisper, "I'm here on a mission." She nodded meaningfully.

"I see. What kind of 'mission' is this?"

"It's for Ravenna. The poor thing, she's not as young as she used to be... it's her heart, they say. There's an excellent herb dealer not far from here. I came to ask for something to help Ravenna's condition. The war is already so hard on her, I'm afraid the journey to Lindon might be too much if I don't find something to cure her!"

"And why couldn't you send a servant instead of coming yourself?" Falathor persisted.

"Oh, that wouldn't be proper! That a mere servant should lay hands on a lady's medicines... now, really!"

Falathor sighed and rubbed his temples, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. "'Proper'," he muttered, "Indithel, much as I love you, sometimes you make less sense than my reasons for loving you."

For a moment Indithel had nothing to answer. She swallowed over a lump in her throat and forced herself to continue smiling. "Let's not talk of such sad things!" she said brightly, traipsing into the room and plopping girlishly onto the bed across from the table, "I came for your company, after all. Let's see... I heard the loveliest gossip today... imagine, there's going to be an execution!"

"You call that 'lovely'?" Falathor asked acidly.

"Oh, you know... not lovely for her, of course..."

Falathor frowned. "Her? They're executing a woman?"

"Yes, can you believe it? I would have thought you'd have heard by now... it's all over the streets. They say she's a murderess. Awful, don't you think? She murdered some lord's brother – no, I think it was the brother of the First Lord himself! - and now they're going to burn the poor creature. No doubt it was all out of jealousy or some such thing – love drives people to such extreme measures sometimes! Why, I feel rather sorry for her. I've never seen the unfortunate girl, of course, but she has such a lovely name... Anna Cherrythorn or something like that. It's a real shame, if you ask me... Why, what's the matter?"

Falathor reeled back, nearly tripping over his chair, face a pale mask of shock. "What... what did you say? What was her name?"

"Oh, I don't know exactly," Indithel said uncertainly, "Anna something-or-other. Something about thorns. What's the matter? You look as if you've seen a barrow-wight!"

Falathor stared through her, hands hanging limply at his side. "Anna," he muttered to himself, "They're here. All the time I was searching and it never even occurred to me... that it could be her... that she could be..." He snapped back to reality suddenly, eye flaming with passionate feeling, "Telpedur! Even now you work mischief against Arnor! I won't allow it!" In a fever of motion, he stormed past Indithel into the hall. She started up and grabbed his arm tightly, pulling him back to face her.

"What are you doing?" she cried.

He glared down at her, but her distress was so real that his face softened slightly. "Don't worry," he said reassuringly, "I have to take care of this, that's all. Some very important facts have come to my attention. Stay here, and I'll come back for you later. Don't worry!" He pulled away from her and ran down the stairs without another glance backward.

Indithel gazed after him for a long while, trying to still her trembling and hoping desperately that she had not just sent him to his death.

 

"Excuse me..." Trotter said, enunciating each word carefully, "Are you awake?"

The guard looked down at him blearily and mumbled something into his double chin.

"I'd like to a visit a prisoner..." Trotter began. The guard paid no heed, only slumping further against the stone wall of the East Gaol.

Trotter glanced down the street apprehensively. It was empty, from what he could see. Apparently, even the most stubborn of night criminals preferred to do their business somewhere more distant from this symbol of legal authority. A lonely torch flickered above the door engraved with the word 'gaol', revealing only himself and the dozing guard slipping inevitably off his chair.

"Alright, I suppose you won't mind, then," Trotter said, pushing open the creaking door slowly.

Almost immediately, a pair of strong hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him inside roughly. He yelped and twisted to no avail.

"What do you want, eh?" a voice hissed in his ear, "stop your squirming!"

Trotter ceased struggling and found himself face-to-face with a black-haired, suspicious-eyed young man. A quick glance around placed him in a guardroom; a few chairs and a large shelf lined with locked cupboards constituted the only furniture. Torches burned on either side of a heavy door on the far wall.

"I, uh... I want to visit a prisoner," Trotter stuttered.

The guard grinned. "Don't they all!" he sneered, "I'm afraid that's against the rules, sonny! Why don't you run home where you belong?"

"But you don't understand, this is very important!" Trotter insisted, unable to think of a more cogent argument.

"What do think this is – a museum? It's a prison, boy! No visiting hours!" The guard began pushing him brusquely towards the door again.

"Wait!" Trotter protested, bracing himself, "I... I can pay!"

The guard let go of him suddenly. "Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?" he hissed, "How much you got?"

Trotter was forced to admit to himself that he had no money. The Orcs had taken from him everything of monetary value. He dug through his pockets frantically, searching for something, anything, all the while uncomfortably aware of the guard's growing impatience.

"Well? Out with it, or with you!" the man snapped a second later, reaching for him yet again.

"No, here it is!" Trotter said, pulling a small, hard object out of his pocket. It sparkled fitfully in the torchlight.

His father's brooch.

The Tree and Stars winked up at him trustingly. How many times had he seen them shine on his father's shoulder? How many times had he longed to wear them himself someday? How long had he borne this tiny memory, the last object connecting him to his father? He could almost see Adelard's quiet smile and knowing eyes reflected in the smooth metal...

Swallowing hard, he pressed the brooch into the guard's hand. "It's real silver," he said, "You can sell it... I'm sure it's worth a lot of money."

The guard examined the brooch critically. "Not as much as you think, I'll warrant. Alright, then. I'll give you five minutes." He fished a dangling bundle of keys out of his pocket and led Trotter to the inner door. "Five minutes!" he repeated, pushing the Hobbit into a dim corridor rowed with crowded cells.

The gaol was unflatteringly full, Trotter noted as he tiptoed down the hall. Not all of the inmates were asleep. Some talked aloud, to each other or to themselves. Some called to him with slurred voices, but he ignored them, concentrating on the task at hand. When he had wandered down approximately half the length of the corridor, he stopped and looked around uncertainly.

"Anna?" he called softly, "are you here?"

There was no reply.

"Anna?" he said a bit more loudly, "where are you?"

As if in answer, a thin shadow moved, sliding up against the bars of a cell a few steps ahead of him.

"Trotter...?" a timid whisper reached him.

In a second, he was by the cell and had caught Anna's hand in his own. He could see her face, ashen and drawn, in the smoky light cast by the sparse torches.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

She only stared at him as if she couldn't believe her eyes. "You came," she said wonderingly, "you came for me. Why? You heard what Mathwes said."

An uncomfortable silence followed.

"It doesn't matter," Trotter said in a rush, "It doesn't matter what he said, I don't believe it! I know you. What, did you think I'd believe what some strange Man said? I know you're innocent, and I promise I'm going to get you out of here..."

But Anna only shook her head and stared at the ground between her feet. "You don't understand," she mumbled in a choked voice.

"I do! I mean... what do you mean, I don't understand?"

She looked up at him desperately. "Poor, sweet, innocent Trotter, always believing the best about people. To you, everyone is good and decent, aren't they? You're wrong, of course, this time at least... You don't know me. I'm so sorry, Trotter... I should have told you, but I was so happy, I hoped it would all be forgotten and no one would ever know... I didn't know this would happen..."

Trotter hardly breathed, horror diggings its cruel claws into his heart. "You don't mean to say..."

"I'm not innocent," Anna whispered, eyes shining, "it's like I said, back there before the Elves found us. I don't deserve your love."

"I don't understand," Trotter said numbly, dropping her hand, "You're admitting it? But why?" His voice sounded far away. "Why did you do it?"

"He asked me to!" Anna cried, her voice ringing with grief and despair, "he begged me! He said if I didn't do it, he'd have me hunted out of town. He frightened me and threatened me and... I didn't know what else to do!"

"Who asked you?"

"Telpedur!" Anna gasped.

"What?" Trotter took a step backwards, "you're telling me a man ordered you to kill him?"

Anna looked as if she had been struck between the eyes by a hammer. "Yes... I... you don't believe me, do you?" she asked bitterly, retreating into the shadows.

"Why would anyone ask someone to kill them?"

"Because he too cowardly to do it himself! I don't know! I only went to the inn because it was empty and out of the water. The orphanage was flooded. Then I went upstairs... he was there, in the room. Alone. He looked like a ghost, all pale and trembling. I tried to leave, but he wouldn't let me... he had a dagger. He put it in my hand and told me to... to..." she buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking silently.

"And you did it."

Anna flinched. "He said he would shut down the orphanage and run all of us out of town. He kept talking... his voice was in my ears all the time, whispering and whining. I couldn't escape! I don't know how to use a weapon anyway, I kept missing... he kept saying, I had to kill him now or he would put an end to me. It was him or me, he said. I could hardly see by the end, with the blood and the tears everywhere."

Trotter found he had nothing to say. The story was bizarre, senseless. It couldn't be true. He should walk out now. He had been wrong, that was all, everyone was wrong sometimes... he still had a mission, he had to get to Gondor, he had Beleg with him. There was nothing to hold him here now. Sometimes one had to make a sacrifice. He could leave, and Anna...

"Please," Anna whispered, "please don't hate me, Trotter."

He felt as if a noose were drawing tight around his throat. "I don't hate you."

"I'm frightened. I'm going to die tomorrow."

Trotter made no reply. The silence stretched out painfully.

"No..." he said finally, "No! I'll..."

He broke off as footsteps rung out against the cold floor. He glanced up just in time to see the guard descending on him like a vulture. The man grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away hastily.

"Time's up!" he said, glaring at both of them contemptuously, "I don't think I'd have let you in here if I had know you wanted to talk to this one." He dragged Trotter away from the cell.

"Wait!" Trotter cried, "Wait, no! I - "

"Quiet!" the guard snapped, "It'll be my job if someone knows you've been here! Out!"

"Trotter!" Anna's voice echoed forlornly down the corridor.

Trotter twisted, trying to glance back, but he could not see past the guard's shoulder.

"Trotter! I forgot to tell you – watch out for - !"

The door slammed behind them, cutting off Anna's words. The young guard pushed him outside without bothering to feign gentleness. Trotter tumbled unceremoniously to the ground, landing uncomfortably in the dirt of the street. The other guard slept on undisturbed beside the outer door.

"Our business is finished!" the young man snarled, "Now get going!"

 

Indithel leaned against the door, reassured by the familiar herbal smells of Ianna's house. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to relax. Shrugging her shoulders to loosen them, she made her way across the dark room, ducking beneath the hanging clusters of dried plants that trailed desiccated tentacles in her loosed hair. She felt her way slowly along the wall to the fireplace, her fingers closing on the candlestick on the mantelpiece.

It took some fumbling to strike a spark, but in a few moments the candlewick caught and a small flame leaped up, casting timid tendrils of light amid the shadows. Indithel glanced down briefly at the wounded Elfit's face. He was sleeping deeply, judging by his slow breathing. She had an urge to pull up the blanket and tuck it under his chin.

"It's dangerous to blunder about in the dark."

Indithel whirled around with a gasp, heart in her mouth. She staggered and half-fell, catching herself against the fireplace. In the candle's shuddering flame, the vague figure of a man sitting at the table gradually became visible.

"Fa...Falathor?" she whispered, "is that you?"

"So eager to have my brother alone in a dark room?"

"Lomin." Her stomach sank to her toes.

"You don't seem happy to see me."

"Why would I be?" Indithel snapped.

The shadow moved indistinctly. "Everyone needs a friend. Someone who truly understands them. You hide yourself so completely, I would think you'd be overjoyed to meet the only person who knows what you really are."

Indithel forced a laugh. "You don't know anything about me," she shook her head.

"Don't I? I know why you're here. I know what you're looking for. What good do you think it will do? It's far too late by now."

"Only you could be so obtuse when your own mother is in question."

"I, obtuse? You know better than that. And I'd be more polite if I were you – after all, I did let you get this far. Don't think it was your own cleverness that brought you safely through the Wild Lands?"

"Why..." Indithel bit her lip. It never paid to give Lomin an opening.

"Why am I here? Or why did I allow you to travel here peacefully?" Lomin leaned forward into the candlelight, a smile illuminating his face. "Excellent questions. I can answer both at once. My dear, I have a business proposal for you."

"I don't deal with traitors."

Lomin frowned, shadows drawing deep lines around his mouth. "That was rash. Don't refuse before you know what you're refusing. I think, once you hear what I have to say, you may change your mind."

Keeping her face smooth, Indithel glided as haughtily as she could to the table and looked down at her unwelcome visitor. "What do you have that could possibly interest me?" she asked lightly.

"I have precisely the thing you've been looking for," Lomin replied, "The thing you travelled all those long leagues to get. In return I merely ask something that is mine away."

Indithel's lip curled unwillingly. "You... you're a viper!"

Lomin laughed, his teeth flashing in the candlelight. He ran a hand through his hair and smirked up at her. "How odd that you say that," he murmured, "when in this case it is you who are destroying and I who am saving."

"I act only for the good of Arnor."

"You really believe that?" Lomin's eyes sparkled up at her, dancing with wicked amusement. "Arnor is dead. It expired years ago. The death knells sounded when Fíriel came to Fornost, and since then it has only been a matter of time. The process began before you were born... your efforts are futile. The Witch-King's most dangerous weapons are far more subtle and far more deadly than armies."

Indithel leaned down until they were eye-to-eye, the candle illuminating both their faces from beneath. The dark pressed close around the two of them, thick, living.

"You would know, wouldn't you?" she said tartly, "I'm curious – what did they pay you? I used to admire you so. And now it turns out that any passing war-lord can buy the great Lominelen's services for a bit of gold."

Lomin's eyes flashed, but his voice remained calm. "You are charmingly ignorant," he said dryly.

Indithel fumed silently.

"I wonder..." Lomin continued idly, "What would it take to buy you, my dear? I could offer you treasures beyond your most secret dreams. No," he said, laying a finger on Indithel's lips to still her protest, "not money, I know that doesn't interest you. What does a princess need with money? Ah, I know the fears and desires in that fierce, trapped heart of yours. You're in a dangerous situation, my girl, and no one knows it but you and me. Lonely, isn't it, all that time in Arvedui's drafty castle, pretending to be some limpid, empty-headed ornament? Always afraid that someone will notice – and put an end to you, like they did to your mother? Wouldn't it be nice to be free for once, to be with someone who appreciates what you are? To be able to show everyone what you're capable of? Not to have to work in the shadows?"

"And I suppose the Witch-King works in the light?" Indithel asked scathingly.

Lomin shrugged. "Some are driven to dark deeds. We all do what we have to. Even me." He grinned. "Maybe someday our shadowy paths will converge for a while."

"No, Lomin," Indithel said with a shiver of disgust, "I will never walk down that path."

"Even the seers never say 'never'..."

"Never," Indithel emphasized, "You haven't said anything that interests me in the least. I won't do any kind of business with you. You might as well leave now!"

"Ah, but I have one more card to play. I'm sure you put up quite an impressive spectacle for Falathor today, but I doubt you know what you have set in motion."

An icy hand gripped Indithel's heart. "What do you mean?" she whispered, hating the fear that crept into her voice.

Lomin smiled faintly. "Why don't you sit down, and we can talk about it?"

Indithel sat down slowly, her mind numbed. As Lomin continued to speak in his sleek, unhurried voice, a feeling of growing panic clamoured ever louder in her breast.

 

There were voices in his dream. Beleg tried to move, but his limbs felt heavy as boulders. Soft, fuzzy darkness rotated slowly in his head. Images flashed by too quickly to see, whispering and rustling like leaves in the wind. He was hot; his skin was burning and his bones ached. He was staring down a long tunnel with a star at the end. The star grew and grew, filling his vision until he wanted to close his eyes to block out the light. But his eyes were already closed.

The star rushed passed him, searing him silently, and the voices came with it, growing louder and louder until he felt they were speaking in his very ears.

The voices were loud, but he could not understand them. There were two, indistinct, humming as if the wind had brought them down the tunnel from far, far away. One was familiar; it made him tremble with anger. The other belonged to a stranger. They were speaking in urgent, hurried tones, but most of the words eluded him. What he heard made him strain to move, but his muscles resisted his efforts as if turned to lead.

He grasped after the voices, but they receded, fading ever further into the blackness until nothing remained except the endless dark before his eyes. The black moment stretched out into eternity as he languished in watchful sleep, forgetting the world, forgetting time itself. He slept, but could not rest. Something called to him silently, recalling him to consciousness...

When Beleg opened his eyes, the room was empty. A candle flickered feebly on the mantelpiece above him. He stared up at a ceiling that looked like an upside-down forest, wondering if he were still dreaming. He was in a bed, that much was obvious. His clothes had been changed and he felt clean and cool. But... was that troll-leaf, there above his head? If he was dreaming, he resented his subconscious playing such demeaning tricks on him.

Beleg sat up slowly, feeling weaker than ever before in his life. The plain room around him remained empty. Where was Trotter? Where was Anna? He recalled flashes of the fight: the fur and the fangs, the sword arcing to his rescue, a lancing pain in his shoulder, air refusing to fill his lungs...

He tried to climb out of the bed and fell with an aching crash to the floor. A stack of wood beside the fireplace toppled over noisily, bits of kindling rolling over the floor. One came to a halt in front of his nose. His eyes focused on it as he gasped, trying to catch his rebellious breath. His shoulder felt numb.

Brisk footsteps tramped suddenly down the stairs beside the hearth, making the wood floor vibrate faintly beneath him.

"Well, of all the...! What are you doing up?"

Beleg groaned and twisted his head to stare up at an elderly woman dressed in a stern night-gown and lace night-cap. She was glaring down at him as if he had personally offended her by trying to stand on his own two feet.

"Trotter...?" he mumbled, "Where's Trotter?"

"Your friend left hours ago," the woman said, pulling him up more gently than her brusque demeanour belied and steering him back to the bed. He sat but did not lie down, shaking his head to clear the last cobwebs of unconsciousness.

"Where?" he asked again.

The woman frowned. "On the other side of the river, I should think." Her tone suggested that anyone who spent their time on 'the other side' was unworthy of notice.

"Have to find him..." Beleg muttered, pulling away from her blearily. He wobbled on his feet, steadying himself with a hand against the wall.

"Now wait a minute! You're not going anywhere, child! You are my patient, and..."

"And I will come and go as I please!" Beleg snapped, the old fire returning to his eyes for a moment. The woman fell silent suddenly. Beleg took a shuddering breath and tried to calm himself. "I mean no disrespect," he said, unable to banish the irony from his tone entirely, "but I must find Trotter. I must tell him..." his eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. "Wait... Who are you? What house is this? How many other shady guests are you entertaining?"

The woman snapped after air like a fish on land. "Shameful!" she scolded, "how dare you! My name is Ianna and this is my house! I am a healer, not an innkeeper, and you and your friend are the only guests here at present – though that state of affairs will change speedily if you keep on like this!"

Her outrage was so real that Beleg could not make himself doubt her. "My apologies," he said, trying to sound conciliatory, "but I heard... well, never mind. Now then, Lady Ianna, I am in need of your aid."

"You have already had more of my aid than you deserve," Ianna sniffed self-righteously.

"Then I will act without your aid," Beleg replied obstinately, pulling together his composure and striding as steadily as he could towards the door, which seemed torturously far away. The floor dipped and bucked beneath his feet like a ship on a stormy sea, but he stubbornly refused to give any sign of discomfort. He rested for a minute by the door before reaching for the knob.

"Wait!" Ianna called suddenly. He looked back expectantly.

The woman glowered fiercely and muttered under her breath. "At least take a cloak!" she ordered, handing him one with a look that dared him to make a saucy comment. He held his tongue.

"Thank you," Beleg nodded, throwing the garment around his shoulders with well-concealed relief, "where can I find Trotter?"

Still scowling, Ianna nodded curtly to the right. "Follow the road downhill. You'll come to a bridge. On the other side you will find the courthouse and gaol. That's where he said he was going." A fleeting ray of worry broke through her thundercloud face. "Hours ago," she added, "He hasn't come back. Nor do I know where Tirwen is..."

Beleg had no idea who this Tirwen was, but he remembered the unknown voice in his dream and repressed a grimace. "I'll keep an eye out," he promised, despite the fact that he did not know who to look for.

Ianna nodded silently. He made his way tiredly into the street, keeping one hand against the wall for support.

If only, if only he could find Trotter first...

 

"Trotter, wake up!"

A sense of urgency nudged at him persistently, making him mumble in protest. It was too early... he didn't want to awake... it was better to sleep, to dream, to forget...

A hand shook him weakly. The dust of sleep began to clear from his mind, and he realized that he was cold, and the ground beneath him was hard. He groaned, trying to push away the intruder in his solitude.

"Trotter! Are you a Hobbit or a... well, I guess you are a Hobbit. Come on, wake up!"

"Leave me alone," Trotter muttered, slitting his eyes blearily and trying to glare fiercely at his unwelcome visitor. A familiar face swam into clarity before him, robbing him of words and leaving him staring dumbly in shock.

"I will not leave you alone," Beleg said coldly, face grey in the dawn light, "If I tramped all the way out here to find you, the least you could do is wake up!"

"How did you get here?" Trotter blurted out, sitting up suddenly. He looked around slowly as memory began to return. He had stumbled away from the gaol, heartsick and despairing, to the riverbank. He remembered sinking down on a dirty terrace, watching the dark water glumly. It had seemed so bluntly appropriate, the cold river, flowing on without paying the slightest heed to where it was going, tearing up trees on its way, flooding houses, drowning people and animals, indiscriminate, uncaring... He had been exhausted after days with little or no rest. He must have fallen asleep.

"I walked," Beleg replied dryly, "all night, for that matter. Listen..."

"What?" Trotter interrupted, feeling his heart twist suddenly, "All night? You walked all night?"

"Yes, tragic, isn't it? But, Trotter..."

Ignoring him, Trotter staggered to his feet, hoping blindly that it wasn't true, that he was still asleep, dreaming perhaps.

Glancing off the rooftops, the sun's early rays stabbed at him triumphantly.

"No!" he cried.

Shadows stretched long before him, laying a black road under his feet as the sun, winning its daily battle, climbed to claim another dark victim.

"No!" He clenched his fists helplessly, shaking his head in hopeless denial. "No!"

"Trotter!" Beleg said, grabbing his arm, "what's..." He fell silent at the look on Trotter's face.

"They're going to kill her," the Hobbit said flatly, "now, in the fire, with the sun."

"Who...?" It wasn't a question. Beleg's face, pale as snow, begged him to take back the words, to refute what he knew must be truth.

"Anna." The word was a bare whisper.

"What?" Beleg's fingers dug into Trotter's arms, "why? Why, Trotter? What happened here?" Desperation enchained the Elfit's voice: desperation, disbelief, and heart-break.

Instead of replying, Trotter pulled his friend with him into a stumbling run. The two of them dashed frenziedly through the streets, their ringing footsteps sounding like accusations to Trotter's ears. You, each pound said pitilessly, abandoned. Her. Abandoned. Her. You. Abandoned. Her.

The East Court was already full when they arrived. Trotter could not see through the crowd. He fell to his knees, crawling through the legs that barred his way. He knew without looking that Beleg was behind him, all his pride forgotten, creeping through the dirt to cast a last glance on the thing that mattered most to him in the world.

The forest of legs thinned and he looked up, finding himself in the front row. Before him an area had been roped off, guards placed around it to keep back the mob. The inhabitants of Tharbad shrieked and hissed, tearing the quiet morning air with ghost-like howls of bloodthirsty pleasure as they leered at their victim.

A platform had been hastily erected before the courthouse. A tall wooden stake reared up, spearing the innocent sky. Wood lay piled around it, ready for the bonfire. It was all wood, all dark brown like a pile of mud torn from the river bottom and tossed carelessly amid the houses – all except for the faint spark, the golden star pressed against the stake that was Anna.

Her eyes were closed, her face upturned to the sun. She gave no sign that she heard the jeers of the crowd or felt the bonds holding her prisoner. Still, calm as her face was, Trotter could see the slight trembling of her limbs. He wanted to call to her, but found he had nothing to say. A lump in his throat choked him, and his eyes burned.

On the far side of the platform a pavilion had been erected, open to the bonfire and the crowd. Three exquisitely-dressed Men sat on elaborate chairs, watching the spectacle calmly. The Three Lords of Tharbad, Trotter guessed. One of them was smiling openly – Telpedur's brother, obviously. The First Lord was not young, but he looked thin and cruel, dangerous and heartless as the skeleton of a blade.

The First Lord gestured briefly to a guard who stood at his side, torch in hand. The guard nodded and bowed deeply, then turned and, with measured steps, made his way to the base of the pile of wood. He bent deliberately...

Trotter felt Beleg tense at his side, ready to leap, empty-handed, to defend Anna against all of Tharbad, against all the world if necessary.

"Stop!"

The guard hesitated, hand frozen a bare handful of inches from the dry wood, and looked up in confusion. The crowd fell silent as suddenly as if a dark sorcerer had stolen their voices. Trotter stared around wildly, searching for the speaker.

Murmurs rose from the assembled citizens, and a path began to open between them. Trotter peered around the people surrounding him, trying to get a clear look.

A Man emerged from the mob and, tossing his cloak carelessly over his shoulder, leaped nimbly onto the platform. In a few steps he was at the guard's side. He tore the torch out of the other Man's grasp and hurled it violently as far from the waiting bonfire as he could. Shrieks of surprise rose from the crowd as they dodged the flaming brand.

The Man, turning so that he could face both the pavilion and the crowd, glared down at both grimly.

"This execution is unjustified. Anna Applethorn is not responsible for Telpedur's death," Falathor said calmly, the sun sparking off his unruly red hair.

"I am."


	16. Caught in the Net

Perfect silence ensued. Trotter felt numbly as if he were standing in the centre of a storm – a storm that was holding its breath, waiting like everyone else for Falathor's next sentence before it could come crashing down to sweep everything away in its fury. The crowd around him seemed petrified, caught in the intensity of the moment.

This moment, like few others he experienced, remained frozen in his memory until the end of his life, perfectly preserved as a moth in amber. Even many years later he could see it clear as a rain-washed sky: the tall, stark beams of the platform, cold and disillusioned in the morning winter sun, Anna's wide eyes, opaque, stricken, the crowd that had been so boisterous now silent as a new-born kitten, Beleg quivering with hope and suspense at his side, and above it all Falathor, a calm champion of the gods, tall and straight beside the stake, his shadow sharp enough to cut. A motionless moment, startled fawn-like out of the noise and confusion that had surrounded it.

The First Lord stood up, and the stillness shattered abruptly. A great murmur rose up from the crowd, almost a roar. The guards around the platform snapped out of their shock, obviously embarrassed at having been caught at unawares. One, bearing a brooch shaped like a golden hammer, barked a few short words, and several of his comrades leaped up onto the structure, grabbing Falathor roughly by the shoulders. Beyond a slight tightening of his lips, the Man gave no sign that he was aware of them.

"Shall we roast this one as well?" the guard with the brooch asked the First Lord with a respectful duck of his head.

The First Lord stepped serenely onto the platform, long slow strides taking him to Falathor's side. The young sun seemed shy of touching him, glancing demurely off his deep green coat and trousers and avoiding the lichens of ghostly lace at his cuffs and neckline. His cloak, darker green yet, stirred heavily as he came to a halt, a sluggish shadow unwilling to move. The First Lord was a tall man, but disturbingly fleshless. His skin was too pale, his hair an iron grey. Trotter shivered; the Lord reminded him of an ancient, starving tree, grim, gnarled, black-hearted. He said nothing, merely gazing at Falathor with eyes so pale a grey they seemed nearly colourless. Falathor looked back resolutely. Trotter felt he would have given much to know what thoughts flew in his friend's head at that moment.

"Shadows," Trotter heard Beleg mutter nearly inaudibly, "some intrigue of Men is at work here."

"Release him," the First Lord said, soft voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd.. The guards, looking almost comically surprised, let go of their red-haired quarry reluctantly. The mob's whispering grew yet louder at this sudden turn in events.

"What's this?" someone said at Trotter's side, "not calling off the entertainment, are they?"

Trotter shot a careful glance towards the speaker. He was a Man, not particularly tall, but burly and muscled like a blacksmith, dressed in stained and ragged wool garments. Still, there was something diseased-looking about him: his skin seemed oddly yellow, and a strange smell wafted from him. A horse-faced woman, perhaps his wife, hung from his arm, her elbows sticking out of her brown frock like daggers.

"You can never tell, with these nobles!" the woman said, "though I daresay the First Lord likes his executions as much as the rest of us! Still," she continued, her voice sinking to a conspirational whisper that Trotter could barely make out, "I've heard some tell about this young man. Lord Falathor they call him, and they says he's a merchant from the North – rich and clever both, which is more than I can say for you! There's been funny whispers since that old Telpedur died. There's some as says he was in with the wrong folk, if you know what I mean, always receiving letters and things from the North. It's no good fooling with those Northerners, like I always say. They do nothing but fight among themselves, with their Kings and their armies! That's why it's better having Lords – they're so busy trying to get the upper hand over each other they don't bother us sensible folk and don't go starting no wars! But where was I?"

"Stop chattering, unless you have something useful to say!" the man growled, shifting his feet impatiently "do you know something about this young fellow or not?"

"Patience, you old wart! I was just getting to that... yes, there's rumours he was down here in the spring at that time on some business or other, probably wantin' weapons or soldiers or some such foolishness. But it was Telpedur as he was dealing with, I'm thinking, and this old nose isn't wrong very often!"

"I'll pertest against that, I will! You're always jabbering some nonsense. Let me tell you, I heard as it's all different... that Telpedur was a-planning to put an end to the First Lord, so's he could be the First himself. And who's to say this Northerner hadn't a hand in it? Telpedur was always a bit too fond of the North Lands. Had strange friends, they say – groups of strangers all in black coming to his house at odd times of night."

"Why, that's a load of cow-thistle if I ever know it!" the woman retorted, offended that her information was under question, "And what would you know of a Lord's house? I should box your ears right here...!"

The gossip died abruptly as the pair redirected their attention at the First Lord, who was whispering something urgently into Falathor's ear. The First's face had turned yet paler with anger, making him look even more like a mouldy ghost in his elegant green suit. Whatever the man was saying, however, Falathor shook his head decidedly.

"Valar take your blasted discretion!" he said fiercely, his voice ringing across the square, "this has gone far enough! Too many evil deeds have been committed on Telpedur's behalf! This woman is not a murderer. Telpedur was dead before ever her hand raised against him, and you know it as well as I!"

Trotter's eyes flew to Anna's face, but she looked as uncomprehending as he felt.

"I wish I had an idea about what's going on!" Beleg grumbled, unsuccessfully trying to hide his agitation behind moodiness, "leave it to the Manling to get in a situation like this!" Despite his harsh words, however, the Elfit's face was deathly pale, his eyes huge and blue, full of painful fear he would never admit to. Trotter only shook his head. His feelings were more mixed than an evening crowd at the Prancing Pony.

The First Lord, moreover, was not about to allow his secrets to be revealed in a public spectacle. He jerked his head impatiently, mouth a hard shard of cruelty as he glared at Falathor. A sharp gesture and a few words sent the guards fanning out into the crowd, efficiently pushing back the curious onlookers. They were none too gentle, and the Tharbadrim grumbled as they milled toward the streets leading out of the square. Trotter found himself crushed between tall bodies, being carried farther and farther away from the platform.

He felt Beleg stagger at his side and grabbed the Elfit's arm instinctively. Vulture-like, the row of guards swooped down on them, herding the front rows too quickly for the onlookers further back to get out of the way. Bodies piled up, and before Trotter knew it he found himself separated from his friend. He wriggled between the people around him, fearing suffocation and hoping that movement might force some space around him. He craned his neck, trying to see, but Beleg had disappeared. Twisting back toward the platform, he caught a glimpse of Falathor, hard-faced, speaking inaudibly to the First Lord. Then threadbare clothing and yellow skin blocked his view. He spared a glance upwards to see the Man who had been gossiping with his wife earlier. His face was as sickly-looking as the rest of him.

Close to despairing, Trotter tried to fight his way back through the crowd. Had Falathor seem them? Did he know they were here? Not likely. Yet it was crucial that they speak together. Falathor had to be told what Trotter knew – that Anna was indeed responsible for the death of Telpedur, before he got both of them killed. And if the Man did not see him now, they might never find each other again, not in a city like Tharbad.

Squaring his shoulders, Trotter rammed sideways into the yellow-skinned Man, catching a hip joint with his elbow. The Man yelped and twisted away, cursing.

"Sorry!" Trotter murmured as he slipped through the momentary gap, only to find himself facing an immensely fat merchant who did not seem to so much as notice him. A few merciless shoves and mild twinges of guilt later, the merchant hurriedly heaved his bulk out of the way, and Trotter burst out of the crowd into open space.

He found himself staring at a tarnished belt buckle. With a sinking heart, his gaze travelled up a grey-and-yellow uniform to meet the cynical eyes of a stubble-cheeked guard. The corners of the guard's mouth turned noticeably down and he looked distinctly out of sorts, none of which boded well.

"Move along now, boy!" the Man droned, poking at Trotter vaguely with an unrefined cudgel, "the First Lord commands! Move on!"

"In a minute," Trotter promised without really paying attention. He stood on his tiptoes, desperately trying to lean around the guard and catch Falathor's eye. This merely succeeded in affording him a view of the neighbouring guard's slightly less tarnished belt buckle.

"No exceptions!" the first guard remonstrated blandly, pushing him roughly back along with the other spectators.

"I make my own exceptions," Trotter replied, to his own surprise. A look of almost laughable shock crossed the guard's face for but a moment – a moment Trotter did not waste.

Twisting as only a determined Hobbit can, he ducked under the guard's grasping arm and dashed into the cleared space before the platform. His feet kicked up dust as he skidded on the unwashed cobblestones to avoid barrelling into the wooden structure. It was too tall for him to jump onto like Falathor had; perhaps for the first time in his life, Trotter wished fleetingly that he had not been endowed with the smallness of a Hobbit.

"Falathor!" he called clearly, grabbing the bleeding wood and about to hoist himself up as best he could. The pair of conferring heads, red and grey, fire and smoke, turned towards him with one mind.

Banked flames of recognition flared in Falathor's eyes. Before Trotter could speak again, however, a hand grabbed the back of his cloak and he felt himself jerked back off his feet. The world disappeared as his face (and, unfortunately, nose) was pressed against the no longer lethargic guard's perspiring armpit. He writhed reflexively, gagging and spluttering, sure that at any moment he would either suffocate or be thrown to dash his brains out on the pavement. Contrary to his fears, his captor's wiry arms merely clamped around him mercilessly and dragged him back.

"Stop twisting, you little urchin!" he heard the guard snap irritably. The sound was muffled through layers of flesh and cloth.

A moment later he was thrown unceremoniously back into the herd of dismissed onlookers. He landed heavily in the cold dust and had to hop quickly to avoid being stepped on by the fat man he had pushed aside earlier. He rolled to the side, fetching up against a pair of legs. The woman they belonged to shrieked and began raining furious accusations down on him. He was still stammering and trying to apologize when a hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him to his feet. Whirling around with a garbled retort on his tongue, he found himself crushed up uncomfortably against Beleg.

"Come on," the Elfit groaned, jerking his head toward the street, which was surprising close.

They allowed themselves to be carried with the crowd out of the square. Some patience and several quick glanced backwards revealed guards blocking off the four or five streets leading to the East Court and shooing away lingerers, of which there were more than a few. Cheated of their spectacle, the citizens of Tharbad muttered and shot dark looks and occasional refuse at the guards, as if these unfortunates were to blame for their disappointment. Trotter and Beleg slipped away down the street; for himself, Trotter decided, he had quite enough of the guards of Tharbad.

Rumours and speculations flew and twittered around them, but Trotter, his mind churning like a broken waterwheel, could not bring himself to pay attention to them. The crowd began to disperse as those people not occupied with harassing the guards returned to their daily business, turning off into other streets, shops, or houses. For a while Trotter and Beleg followed a forgettably ordinary-looking Man until the object of their pursuit turned off into an alley with a rather unpleasant smell. Glancing around hastily, Trotter pulled Beleg into the doorway of a neighbouring shop.

It was a bakery, he realized instantly, recognizing the comfortable smell of bread baking. The door, shut tightly, was in a slight alcove, with windows to either side. A sign hung above, painted with the faded words 'Hot Bun Bakery and Pastry Oven' and accompanied by an uncertain drawing of what appeared to be a bun dancing with sugar braid, but might easily have been taken for a potato and a brown carrot. The sign also informed Trotter that the Hot Bun Bakery was located on Sandy Bean Street, though offering no enlightenment as to what exactly a sandy bean was.

Across from him, Beleg slumped slightly against the wall of the alcove. The Elfit's hand crept as of its own will to his shoulder, and his chest heaved under his white shirt. To his dismay, Trotter saw that blood spotted the cloth under his friend's fingers. It must have soaked through the bandage beneath. Before he could speak, however, Beleg cut into the silence.

"Did you know of this?"

Trotter studied his companion guardedly. Beleg's face was as white as his shirt, but his eyes were huge and feverish, staring unblinkingly into the Hobbit's own. A furious, almost frightening energy seemed to be chained behind the glassy, opaque surface. Not for the first time, Trotter wondered just how Beleg had managed to wander through Tharbad all night without collapsing. His friend looked all too close to collapse now, though he would doubtless flare up well enough if Trotter made any mention of his weakness. Still, he felt it beyond him to agitate the Elfit more than necessary, and telling the entire truth would doubtless do exactly that. To tell Beleg of what Tirwen had said to him, of his conversation with Anna in the gaol...

For the first time in his life, Trotter wanted desperately to lie.

He wondered if Tharbad, City of Traders, Thieves, Murderers, and General Undesirables was having an effect on him. It was an uncomfortable thought. He pushed both it and the desire to lie away and decided to feign ignorance instead.

"Of what in particular?" he asked.

Beleg made a vague gesture, his blood-flecked hand sweeping the air unconsciously. "Of... Falathor and Anna and this murder. When I awoke and went to search for you I knew nothing of this. All I remember is the Warg's teeth and then... blackness. I suspected you had brought us to Tharbad, to some ally I did not know. And when I found you I had no chance to ask. We have not had time to speak. You must explain to me..."

"Later," Trotter promised, shaking his head sharply. Beleg watched him suspiciously, obviously surprised at his unwillingness to speak. To avoid the Elfit's piercing eyes, he peeked out of the doorway and into the street, sweeping his gaze over the buildings and people. Only a few of the latter remained, puttering disconsolately about their morning business. He could not see the street corner or the East Court; they must have come some way into the warren of roads. Across from the bakery, a moustachioed cobbler was sitting astride a bench, hammering at a boot. As if feeling Trotter's eyes, the Man looked up, directly at him. Trotter turned away hastily, which unfortunately caught him once again in Beleg's unwavering stare.

"Why will you not speak?" the Elfit asked.

Trotter cast about vainly for a way to avoid the question. If he changed the subject Beleg would know beyond a doubt that he was hiding something. If he answered... if he lied...

Luckily, he was saved from his predicament by help from an unexpected quarter. Before he could say anything at all, the bakery door burst open, nearly crushing him against the wall. A corpulent figure loomed in the doorway – the baker woman, nearly as round as a hot bun herself.

"Oh, no you don't!" the woman screeched shrilly, wiping a fluory rolling pin on a no-longer-white apron. The woman's face wrinkled in a scowl like a hairless dog's as she tapped the rolling pin threateningly against her impressive thigh. "I won't have beggars on my doorstep!" she asserted with a queenly sniff, "off with you!"

"We are not beggars," Beleg said frostily, drawing himself up to his sadly unimpressive height.

The baker woman spared him a searching glance, but what she saw did not soften her mood in the slightest. "Whatever yeh are, I don't want you! This is a respectable business here, and I don't need no dirty brats hangin' around! Shoo!"

The familiar stubborn look came to Beleg's eyes, prompting Trotter to grab his friend's arm and pull him away, murmuring apologies at the incensed baker. The woman's remonstrations followed them into the street, attracting a curious glance from the cobbler and nearly sending Beleg staggering back to defend his honour. Luckily, the Elfit was too weak to prevent Trotter from dragging him firmly away.

"'Shoo'-ing us!" Beleg growled, "Beggars! Brats! The gall of that cow!"

Trotter's reply died on his lips, for in that moment he caught sight of Falathor. He tugged meaningfully at Beleg's sleeve, and his companion fell silent.

The young Man walked at an unhurried pace down the street, nodding occasionally at another passer-by but speaking to no one. He had pulled up his hood, and his cloak hung over his shoulder, covering the sword Trotter knew hung at his side. He did not break stride as he passed them, merely strolling on without so much as a flicker of an eyelash. Trotter was about to call out to him, but the pressure of Beleg's hand on his arm stopped him. Falathor's eyes swept over the two of them, rested for a moment upon the cobbler hammering at his boot heel, then continued on. He dug his hands into his pockets and, head sunken broodingly onto his chest, meandered on down the street.

Trotter looked at Beleg and, at the other's nod, they began to follow.

This proved no great difficulty, even though the streets began to fill steadily the further they got from the East Court. Falathor had apparently picked a straight course down to the river. Traffic increased and the buildings around them grew steadily shabbier as they moved into the poorer quarters. The cobblestone pavement quickly threw off all semblance of orderliness; stones stuck unevenly out of the ground, scored with deep ruts, until they eventually gave way to plain dirt. At least it was only dirt and dust – Trotter could imagine the mud here after a spring flood all too well. Even so, the dust ruled. It coated drab houses and shops that seemed to lean in tipsily on either side. It clung heavily to the people, turning clothing, hair, skin, everything to an unappetizing brownish-grey. Refuse of unimaginable variety littered the ground, transformed to dirty miniature mountain ranges by the dust.

They passed some street musicians, perched on some dust-covered boxes and playing a common tune while some onlookers sang along lustily. Trotter forbore to listen, keeping his eyes fixed on the brown-wrapped figure trudging on doggedly before him. He repressed a desire to run to Falathor's side and... he didn't know what. Embrace him? Shout at him? Question him?

Definitely the last. Questions bubbled in him like water in an overflowing cauldron. Falathor had been to Tharbad before, that much was clear. He remembered something of the sort from the Last Council. But when, and why? How did the Dúnedan's past intertwine with Anna's? Could Falathor prove Anna's innocence? Trotter could not quell his scepticism. She was not innocent. It could not be proven. It would be folly to hope... she had admitted her guilt, and he knew she had not been lying then, however much she might have in the past. He tasted bitterness – it was this that stung, the fact that she had lied to him, had been lying all along. Everything she had said, everything that they had was mere illusion. He, like a child, had believed all.

Still, he was far from wishing her dead.

And what of this Telpedur? How did Falathor know him – how did he know the First Lord? What went on between Arthedain and Cardolan, in the dark of the night and behind closed doors? He did not know, and yet he began to suspect. Obviously Falathor had business of his own in Tharbad. Or was it King Arvedui's business? Did the King know more than he had admitted at the Last Council? And why had he not thought of that before?

Suddenly, everything seemed infinitely more complicated than it had yesterday.

In front of them, Falathor turned right into a narrow alley between a nearly collapsed wreck of a house and a dubious general store. He disappeared instantly in the putrid shadows that hid there, cowering from the sun beneath tight walls. Trotter and Beleg quickened their steps, fearing to lose sight of their guide; but when they stepped into the dimness, he was waiting for them.

"Well met!" he cried, throwing back his hood with a grin that split his tired face, "I had hoped you would be beyond Tharbad by now, but I must say, I am glad to find you alive and whole!"

"Not as whole as one would like," Beleg said dryly, leaning against the general store's wall. His face was calm and he had lost none of his habitual grace, but Trotter could tell he was tired. Bruise-coloured shadows underlined his eyes, and beneath his cloak the bloody spot had grown.

Falathor's grin faltered and he nodded grimly. "I see that you are injured. I will not ask for the tale; we have no time for that now. But I am no less glad that you are alive, at the least."

"It was not myself I was referring to," Beleg said, dismissing the subject of his wound easily, "we are not whole: one of our number is missing. And yet it seems you may be able to help us, and Anna."

Falathor glanced around as if involuntarily and, scowling, drew them further from the street. They took refuge behind a large bin of discarded eggshells, mouldy bread, other rotten remains. A cat, startled by their appearance, slipped from among the refuse, hissed at them, and disappeared into the further depths of the alley.

"Speak softly!" Falathor admonished in a low voice, "and let none hear. You are dabbling in dangerous waters, and the depths are blacker than you know. Blacker even than I know," he added with a grimace, "though I at least may guess."

"I am glad to see you too," Trotter said wryly, "despite your dark words. Where have you been, Falathor, what have you found here? How fare the King and Thorondil? We have heard nothing... it worried me, I must admit. The going has been slow, for sure – it seems the Wi... I mean, our enemy knows too much of our plans. Everywhere we find danger and opposition, even here... I am brimming with questions! How do you know the First Lord? The people speak of you in the streets as one who has been here before often. What do you know of this business? And," he swallowed a lump in his throat, "what of Anna? Can you prevent the execution?" He fell silent, not trusting himself to continue.

"There will be no execution!" Falathor said sharply, "I will not allow it. I'm afraid I have rather a lot of explaining to do." He sighed, fatigue all too obvious in the lines of his face. "Why am I here? You know that already – I was sent to find Lomin's child, as you surely remember."

"Ah, yes, I do," Trotter said, "and have you succeeded?"

Falathor looked hard at him. "Your loyalty to your friend is admirable. But do not attempt to hide your awareness from me! Surely the facts could not have escaped you. I know you know of what I speak."

"I, however, do not," Beleg interrupted, glancing in obvious displeasure from one to the other, "and I dislike being kept in the dark. You're speaking in riddles as far as I'm concerned, and I have no wish to play games now."

"Then let me enlighten you, as briefly as I may,," Falathor said, silencing Trotter, who had been about to speak, with a gesture, "I set out to find Lomin's child, as you know. I had lost the trail in Tharbad before – yes, Trotter, I have had business in this city and with its Lords, of which I may speak later. Hither I returned to renew my search. My efforts were fruitless until today – all I knew of the child was that it had been banished for murder, and that Lomin had desired to keep his affair with the mother clandestine. Never did I guess the reason for that secrecy could be that the woman was a Halfling! Only last night did the truth become clear to me – that the child had been before me all along, and my searching useless."

Beleg studied the Man intently. His expression was unreadable, and when he spoke his voice was flat. "You are implying that Lomin is Anna's father."

"I suspect – nay, I may say I now it, as does Trotter."

Beleg's eyes flew to Trotter, who squirmed under the icy gaze.

"Yes, I knew!" he admitted finally, "or rather, I guessed as much, when Mathwes took her from the battlefield. He named her murderess, and I remembered, Falathor, your words at the Last Council. But Beleg, you were unconscious and I had no time to speak with you later, or I would have told you all!"

To his surprise, Beleg seemed little concerned with the tardiness of the information. "It is not that which worries me," he said, looking uncommonly thoughtful, "but rather your own assertions. You 'guess' and 'suspect' much, yes, and say you know. But where is the proof? This could all be perfect coincidence. Don't jump to conclusions, I say, or you might have a time coming back."

"There is no 'proof,' as such," Falathor admitted, "but this cannot be coincidence. The timing is exact, every fact fits. What are the chances of two orphans being banished in the same spring? It is impossible, or at least far too unlikely to be true. There is only one, and she is Anna Applethorn."

Beleg stared at him, expressionless. "Does she know?"

"I don't believe so." Trotter shook his head.

"Then do not tell her! It makes no difference. She does not need to know. It is kinder to remain silent, once we have her back."

A ghost of a smile crept back to Falathor's face. "It seems you have changed much, Master Elfit," he remarked, "I think you would not have spoken so in Fornost."

"It matters little how one speaks," Beleg replied with faultless dignity, "but how one acts. We have a task at hand, let me remind you both: we must save Anna."

"The murder is the question now," Trotter agreed, "it seems you know the truth of it, Falathor. What happened here last spring? And what have you to do with it?"

"Much that I will not disclose now," Falathor replied, forestalling Trotter's protest with a wave of his hand, "but I will say this much: Anna is not at fault. I will do what I can to save her. Later I will tell you more..." A cloud of thoughtfulness passed over his face. "... or perhaps show you. The First Lord is holding a banquet at his manor house tonight, where we two have agreed to meet. He was unhappy with my interference – but he fears that I may let slip the truth to the town, where rumours may destroy him. The execution, for now, has been called off. But if I cannot convince him tonight that I am in the right, it may mean death for more than one of us. Anna, you may wish to know, has been taken to the manor as well, at my request – still as a prisoner, or hostage, more like. Come with me tonight, if you wish!"

"I do, for one," Trotter said, "I want to get to the bottom of this."

"Very well." Falathor nodded. "I will obtain some suitable clothing for you... and I have yet other errands to run. Do you know the Gilded Wasp Inn? No? No matter – ask for it and anyone will direct you there. On the Inn's right stands and small café called the Honeydrop. Meet me there at six o' clock this evening!"

Trotter nodded silently, forbearing to ask what a 'café' was.

"And speak to no one of what was said here," Falathor added, "there is little love between Cardolan and Arthedain these days. These matters span dangerous waters, as I said before. But there is no more time; someone may be watching us, and growing suspicious at such a long discourse. I will tell you more tonight. Now I will leave you; do not follow until five minutes or so have passed. We should not be seen together. And do not forget our meeting!"

He had already turned to leave when Beleg suddenly called him back.

"Falathor!"

"What is it?" the man asked when Beleg did not continue.

Beleg looked unsure, his composure slipping slightly to reveal confusion. "You... you were not, by any chance, in the house of a healer last night? On the other side of the river?"

Falathor shook his head. "I am not acquainted with any healers here."

"That is odd." Beleg blinked, troubled. "I dreamt last night, of two voices whispering. I do not remember the words, but one of the speakers sounded familiar. I thought the voice was yours."

"This is odd indeed," Falathor said slowly, "It cannot have been me you heard. I do not know what it means. But... be careful! Be very careful." And with one last, uneasy glance, he was gone.

"Well," Trotter remarked, watching the Man's cloak disappear in the crowd on the street, "we are hardly wiser than before, for all this talk."

"Speak for yourself!" Beleg muttered, slumping heavily against the alley wall, "I know not what to make of all this, Trotter. Are you sure I'm not dreaming?"

"I know you are not, but perhaps I am..."

Beleg laughed shortly. "Perhaps we all are! But if so, I am tired of dreaming about this filthy alley! Let us go somewhere with a more pleasant smell, preferably not home to a brood of stray cats."

"You are not well," Trotter said, looking at his friend critically, "you should have stayed at the healer's house."

"Don't say that," Beleg said with a long-suffering groan, "it's typical." Brushing the dirt off his hands, he started shakily out into the street.

"What do you mean, typical?" Trotter asked, following, not sure if he should be offended or not.

"I mean, what hero doesn't say that? I know many tales, my friend, and a good half of them are full of sentimental remonstrations exactly like what you just said. It's always the same – the courageous warrior, despite many injuries, drags himself to yet another battle, where he is immediately scolded for his presumption. Scolded! Isn't it troublesome enough being a hero without having to endure humiliation as well?"

"And you think us heroes?" Trotter asked dryly, hopping over a rut as big as a small canyon. They continued downhill towards the riverbank, where they would eventually come upon the bridge. The streets were crowded now, and not all the company was savoury. They walked close together, speaking quietly and hurrying as much as they could. Trotter found himself casting wary glances around and repressed an urge to reach for his sword hilt every time someone seemed to be watching them.

Beleg shrugged lightly in reply. Sweat was beading on his face, and he looked weaker, less alert. Trotter made no comment. It would only offend the Elfit anyway.

"I am no hero," Beleg murmured, "heroes fight for something. I am bound to nothing, and there is nothing I would fight for beyond myself and those closest to me. I have no ideal, no purpose or goal, no one to whom my deeds would be of value. Who would call me hero? I am a wanderer, an anonymity. But you... this noble quest was, after all, your idea! You lead us, and the King called you Calacolindo. You battle for Arnor – for your home, for the safety of others, and so forth. It's quite gallant, anyone will tell you. Besides, the story world is full of plain farmer boys who performed great tasks and became heroes – or even kings! Perhaps if we succeed King Arvedui will give you his daughter's hand, eh?"

"You're very amusing, to be sure." Trotter rolled his eyes and slipped out of the path of a wheelbarrow filled with sad-looking cabbages. "But you forget one thing. I am not a farmer. My father was a Guardsman, a soldier."

"Even better!" Trotter could hear the grin in Beleg's voice, though the Elfit's face remained smooth. "There are endless tales about solders. Have you not heard the charming story of the mithril soldier?"

"Yes... the one about the Elf princeling's toy, who falls in love with a dancing doll. It's a bit senseless, if you ask me. Why would anyone make a toy soldier – of mithril, no less! – with only one leg?"

"Perhaps the other broke off," Beleg suggested with a laugh, "or perhaps the maker had a purpose in not completing his creation."

"Whatever the reason, I still do not see your point."

"My point? I am merely talking, friend! An Elfit speaks what is in his mind. But I think, perhaps, you are an bit like the one-legged soldier. He was not what one would expect in a hero, was he?"

"Ah, so you mean I look unheroic... there's no need to snicker! But I never claimed to be a hero, Beleg, no more than the mithril soldier did. So perhaps we do have something in common. Though actually, I think you're a good deal more like him than I!"

Beleg shot him a thoughtful and somewhat foggy look. To Trotter's shock, the Elfit's face was pained, pale as a corpse, his eyes unclear. "You might be right. Maybe I am missing a leg somewhere." A weak grin tugged at his lips. "But I am a wanderer, not a fighter, and certainly not made of mithril."

"Good thing, too. You would never be safe from the Dwarves, and we have enough trouble on this journey as it is."

"Too much trouble," Beleg agreed softly, suddenly serious, "and this not the least of it. Now we will be held up, I daresay, and all on the Manling's account! I wish she were here now. I have quite a lot to say to her, little of it to her liking, I suspect. It's almost ridiculous! Whom did she offend that they chose to accuse her of murder? And such a high-placed victim! Though how anyone could believe that Anna..." he trailed off at the look on Trotter's face and gazed at the Hobbit suspiciously. "You do not believe it, do you? Falathor said himself that she is not at fault. It is all a fraud, a mistake of some sort – grievous, no doubt, but we will find the solution."

"I wish it were that simple. But I am in doubt, as I have never been before. You know, Beleg, that Anna ever had an ill reputation in my hometown. I paid no attention to her then, neither friendly nor otherwise. Only when that night threw us together did I take notice of her, and realize that she was not what gossip made her out to be. Or so I believed, at the time. I grew to love her as a friend, and put all my faith in her. And yet now I doubt. No, don't look at me so! Your thoughts are familiar to me, friend, and I know that for all your harsh words your heart is pure and pitying, susceptible to kindness and emotion. And for all your experience, I deem you blind in this matter. You judge with a friendly heart, and I would that I could do so! But I went to her last night, Beleg, and she told me of her own will that she is guilty. Not unrepentant, no! It was not her express desire to kill Telpedur, and doubtless she regrets it – nonetheless, she claims responsibility for a murder, and what can I think?"

"You believe? Madness! It is some trick... they frightened her into speaking so, or threatened her. You said yourself, Trotter, that Anna is too gentle a spirit to harm anyone. You were right then; trust your own words now! And Falathor defends her."

"I did say that... and he does defend her. I would continue to deny it had she not admitted to the deed herself. Yet it seems that for all my faith, or my pride, foolishness, or ignorance, as the case may be, I am not infallible. Nor is Falathor. What I said then may be as false as what he says now. Beleg! Had you heard her voice, seen her like I did, you would understand! There is a tale behind this, a dark tale I fear to learn... somewhere the strings are being pulled, and we have all been caught in the net!"

It was obvious from the Elfit's face that he was not convinced. Grim-mouthed, his drew his hood over his head, veiling his expression, and did not reply for some moments. Inexplicably, Trotter felt guilty. He was sure… of what? Was he? Or was he trying to sabotage his friend's loyalty? Conflicting emotions and thoughts half-formed warred in his breast. Truth seemed a laughable concept, clarity unattainable. And there did not seem to be an easy way out. He could almost feel the clinging strands of the net drawing tight around him…

Trotter was so lost in his musings that he did not realize that had reached the river until Beleg spoke.

"This water is a flowing bog," the Elfit muttered sourly.

The statement was only slightly exaggerated. As they headed toward the wooden bridge arcing lopsidedly over the Greyflood, Trotter's eyes were drawn to the sluggish currents. It was impossible to tell the depth of the water; the opaque brown surface betrayed no hints. Anything could be down there, in the mud, as mysterious and ominous as the city itself. Secrets. Bodies… drowned, murdered, silenced, lying on the silt-covered ground. Shivering, Trotter pushed away his morbid thoughts.

He only grew gloomier as they crossed the rickety bridge, making their way through a fitful stream of people and carts. The citizens gossiped and shouted loudly over his head. Hoarse voices and raucous laughter thundered an uneven symphony. Many of the Tharbadrim Trotter saw had the same yellowish skin and odd smell as the Man he had overheard at the East Court. He wondered if there was a plague in town. It could not have been a very deadly one, as the infected people were wandering around freely on the streets. On the other hand, he had begun to suspect that in Tharbad, anything was acceptable. He suppressed an urge to cringe away from the bodies around him and walked on casually.

They made their way to the far bank and Trotter led the way up the cobblestone street toward Ianna's house. He went slowly of necessity, for Beleg had begun to lag behind more and more. Despite his brooding thoughts, a twinge of worry made its way into Trotter's mind. The Elfit's face remained concealed beneath his hood, but his hands were pale as a ghost's, and he clutched almost reflexively at his shoulder. Normally graceful, he began to stumble. His tense shoulders dared Trotter to speak. The Hobbit was sure his friend would not take any comments about his weakness well. But they were slowing down, and Trotter felt the need to hurry.

Finally, concern or perhaps annoyance won out, and Trotter stopped.

"Let me help you," he offered.

As expected, Beleg glared. "Help yourself," he growled, clenching his hands as if to prove he still retained some strength, "is the healer's house near? Why must the woman set up her practice as far from civilization as possible?" He did not accept Trotter's offer of a hand, instead striding ahead as if to show that he could not only walk but lead the way himself.

Trotter could not help sighing as he watched his friend totter away. "Stubborn," he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

Later he would wonder if that unsuspecting shake of the head saved his life. Of one thing he was certain: the unexpected movement surprised his attacker, and the club struck a glancing blow instead of one that might have been fatal.

A sudden ringing filled his head, which seemed to expand and balloon out oddly. At the same time, the sky darkened and spun around him, and suddenly he was staring at the dusty cobblestones instead of the heavens. The air in his lungs had fled rebelliously. The colours around him were already fading to black when something rough and musty was thrown over his head.

 

A muffled thud made Beleg stop gratefully in his tracks. If he wouldn't say it aloud, he couldn't help but admit to himself than a few more steps would have sent him keeling humiliatingly into the dust. Trying to look casual, he supported himself against the wall of the nearest house and turned slowly, struggling to keep his head from floating off his neck.

"Well, what…"

Not being partial to conversing with himself, he trailed off. He was alone. Blinking, wondering if the sun and the pain had made him hallucinate, he melted back against the wall behind him and cast uncertain glances up and down the street.

No one.

He wondered if he should call. The nervous, squirming feeling in his stomach told him not to. Had Trotter taken a different turn somewhere? Was the Hobbit playing a joke on him? But there were no other streets or alleys in the immediate area, and Trotter had always been the serious one, or at least the responsible one. And then there had been that thud. Beleg began to edge along the wall cautiously, until he came level to the place where Trotter had been standing. He cocked his head, squinting at the dust on the ground.

He wished in passing that he could see and think clearly. It was hard to tell, but… that could be a mark, there in the dust. There was a spot where the cobblestones had been rubbed nearly clean. He could make out no other tracks.

Attacked. That had to be the answer, he felt with a thud of certainty. There was no reason for Trotter to leave, nowhere for him to have gone… but then, why was Beleg himself still here? And where had the attackers gone? He had already noted the lack of other streets in the immediately vicinity. Into one of the houses? He had heard no door open and close. The buildings on the street seemed to be homes of moderate means. He could knock, but that might lead him into the arms of the attacker, or attackers. If they had even fled into a house. What about the roof? He wondered if he should climb to the rooftops and look for signs of a trail, but…

Another wave of dizziness swept over him, accompanied by seething anger. He was tired of being hunted, followed, attacked; he wanted to grab his bow and shoot down their pursuers, face them in open combat, give them what they had been asking for. None of that, of course, was possible. Beleg leaned against the wall behind him, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. To his annoyance, his hands were trembling. He was in no shape to do anything, he knew. Trotter was gone; Anna was gone; he himself was hurt. In that moment, he seriously doubted that King Arvedui would ever get the help he needed from Gondor.

With a jump of hope, he realized that one option remained: Falathor. If Falathor knew as much as he promised, he might be able to present some hope. It was, Beleg was forced to admit to himself, the best chance, irritating as he found his present inaction.

Still casting furtive glances up and down the street and gritting his teeth in frustration, Beleg began to creep slowly up the street, back to the healer's house.


	17. The Price of a Kingdom

The moment he stepped into the room, Falathor knew something was amiss. Closing the door softly behind him, he wrinkled his brow. It took a moment for him to realize just why the room felt so empty: it was empty.

"Indithel!" It came out as an explosive whisper. Fists clenched, Falathor glared wildly around the room, as if expecting to find the King's daughter concealed mischievously in some corner. The room remained empty. Muttering and shaking his head, he stomped across the small space and flicked aside the curtains. After gazing briefly out the window, he shook his head and turned back to the room.

He froze as something on the table caught his eye. Slowly this time, he stalked forward, stopping stiff-legged beside the small piece of furniture and staring down blankly.

It was a sheet of parchment.

He picked it up, expressionless, knowing already that it was a letter, and knowing who it was from. Murmuring under his breath, he began to read.

"Dearest Falathor,

I know you asked me to stay, but I simply got bored. You were gone quite a while, you must admit. I did wait for a bit. I hope you're not too angry. I found what I wanted for Ravenna. Now I can go back to the Havens, like you wanted. Isn't that nice? I hope to see you there. Regards,

Lady Indithel,

Daughter to Arvedui, King of the joints realms Arthedain, Cardolan, and Rhudaur, etc."

Falathor replaced the letter on the table mechanically and sat down, burying his head in his hands. A soft sigh escaped through his fingers; it might have meant anything. Slow moments passed, the silence remaining unbroken. One might have thought the young man had fallen asleep, or into a trance.

A knock sounded at the door, and Falathor jerked, eyes widening. He leaped to his feet, unconsciously straightening his jacket.

"Come!"

The door opened and a maid peeked in apologetically. "Please, sir," she said, "here are the clothes my lord required." She tiptoed into the room, laying a bundle of cloth on the bed, and turned to go uncertainly.

"Wait." The word escaped Falathor's lips before he could stop himself.

The maid halted, obviously unsure and slightly apprehensive. She looked at him humbly with great, innocent blue eyes.

"Yes, my lord?"

Falathor hesitated, then continued as if forcing the words out of himself. "Did you, by any chance, see a... lady leave some time ago?"

The maid looked confused. "Not many ladies be comin' to the Wasp, sir. Not many lords neither, sir, save yourself."

"I see... so you saw no one? A woman. Tall, beautiful, black-haired, and blue-eyed, graceful like a... like a fawn. You did not see her?"

The maid shook her head blankly. "I didn't see no one like that, sir. Mayhap she was here, but I didn't see her." She curtsied and turned to go. This time he let her.

When the maid had left, Falathor turned to the bundle of clothes she had left. A short examination yielded two suits of fine quality, though not too remarkable in cut. They were children's suits, in different sizes: one for a boy of about ten, another for one of perhaps thirteen or fourteen. The smaller was dark blue, trimmed with silver; the larger pure black, garnished with green. A smile flicked over Falathor's face, barely visible.

It took him only a few minutes to change into his own suit. Scooping up a double handful of water from a basin by the bed, he splashed it over his face quickly. Shaking his head to cast away the stray drops clinging to him, he caught sight of himself in a mirror on the wall.

Falathor paused. Slowly, as if he feared what he might see, he stepped closer to the glass.

Nothing, only his own face. Yet for a moment, before, he had been sure it had been Lomin staring out at him.

Dismissing such notions angrily, he picked up the children's suits and tucked them under his arm. Checking that his sword remained at his side and his eye-patch was in place, he strode out of the room.

It took only a few minutes to reach the Honeydrop. The sky had grown dim and those houses and businesses that could afford outside lanterns had lit them. Fitful light crept about his feet as he made his way into the café. It was crowded, as usual, but the wooden partitions separating the tables still guaranteed an amount of privacy to customers. The main room was shaped roughly like an octagon, with narrow hallways leading away to private chambers that could be reserved beforehand.

Falathor stood for a moment in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the even dimmer light inside. The only illumination came from the candles standing in the centre of each table. Low light for low deeds – he smiled again, briefly, bitterly. Then he began to weave a path through the tables and partitions, searching for an empty one. He had not gone far, however, when a voice hailed him from close by.

"Falathor!" It was a whisper, low and insistent, that made him turn his head searchingly until he had found the source.

In a corner, a cloaked figure gestured to him. The movement was calm and controlled, and yet slightly hurried. A sudden sense of urgency made the hair on Falathor's neck prickle. Glancing around covertly, he took a seat serenely at the table. The figure moved back slightly as if to keep at a distance from him. He, whoever it was, sat hunched over as if hugging his stomach in pain. Falathor barely noticed; he was far more concerned with the fact that only one sat at this table.

The partitions now screened them from view, but Falathor kept his voice down; it always paid to be careful.

"Well?" he asked, uncertain. He had told two to meet him, and here was only one.

His companion pulled off his hood, revealing the still-too-pale face of Beleg the Elfit. For a moment the two regarded one another, each seeming at a loss for words. In the silence, Falathor busied himself with examining the Elfit. He looked somewhat better than he had when last they had met, there in the alley. At least he no longer seemed on the brink of collapse. Still, he was not the lithe, graceful creature he had been at the Last Council. Pallid skin and dark hair emphasized the dark circles under his eyes, and his lips were too tight, too strained.

Finally, the silence became uncomfortable, and they broke it together.

"Where is Trotter?"

"Where is Anna?"

They paused, both surprised. Then Beleg grinned. It was not a joyous expression, more rueful than happy, but Falathor felt his muscles loosening nonetheless. He realized he had been gripping the edge of the table. There were splinters in his skin, and his knuckles ached. He rubbed them absently and repeated his question.

"Where is Trotter? I asked you both to meet me here. Has something happened…?"

"In the company of Trotter the Hobbit, there is always much happening, little of it savoury," Beleg replied with his trademark wryness, "but if you wish to know where he is, I'm afraid I can say little that is helpful. You see, I don't exactly know myself. He has gone missing." A shadow of worry crossed the Elfit's face, belying that, despite his casual tone, his friend's fate concerned him deeply.

"Missing?" Falathor could not keep the surprise out of his voice. He realized he had spoken the word nearly aloud, and dropped his tone back to a whisper. "Where? How do you mean? Has he… left?"

If he was implying that Trotter might have fled the city, leaving them and continuing his errand, Beleg dispelled his fears with a curt shake of his head.

"He disappeared when we were returning to the healer's house. There was no warning of any sort. I was walking before him at the time, and I heard a sound. Just a very soft, muffled sort of sound, but it made me stop. But when I turned around, there was no sign of Trotter. I went back and checked for… signs, tracks, anything. There was a spot on the cobblestones… it might have been the mark of a body in the dust. I saw no one. Still, I suspect… attack."

"Why did you not look for him?"

Beleg looked chagrined. "I was not well," he muttered bitterly, glaring at Falathor, "and I could not guess which way they might have gone. I thought of checking the houses, and of the rooftops, but I could not climb, and in the state I was in they would have taken or killed me easily. I returned to the healer's house – she helped me. Quite a brilliant woman." His expression turned thoughtful and mildly reverent. "It is thanks to her brews and herbs that I am here now. And now that I am here, I may see fit to ask you those questions you have been promising to answer. As well as some new ones that occurred to me – for example, what you had to do with Trotter's kidnapping."

"Elbereth!" Falathor exploded before he could help himself. He forced himself to speak softly once more, but could not keep the fury out of his voice. "You accuse me? Are you mad? If it weren't for me – your friend Anna would be ashes in the wind by now! I put myself on Trotter's side, I aided him and you, I backed him at the Last Council, I disowned my own brother, and you, you – accuse me of treachery!" His fists clenched reflexively on the table and he began to rise, overcome for a moment by the injustice of it all.

He froze in the middle of the movement when Beleg straightened, revealing the small crossbow he had been concealing close to his body, under his cloak. The iron head of the arrow gleamed wickedly in the light of the candle. Falathor could imagine it gleaming as it flashed into his ribcage all too well. He seethed with anger, but did not move further.

"Sit down," Beleg said softly.

Slowly, Falathor lowered himself back onto the chair. The crossbow remained fixed on his heart.

"Fool!" he sputtered, "you – fool!"

Beleg's face remained impassive. "I'm afraid eloquence will get you nowhere. I want answers, Falathor. You claimed you had them. In fact, you seem to know an awful lot for my liking."

"Trotter would not agree with what you are doing."

"Trotter isn't here, and you might well be responsible for that."

"Trotter is my friend!"

Beleg leaned closer, a fierce light shining in his eyes. "Listen, you arrogant Man," he hissed, "Trotter is my troth-brother, my companion of long months and hundreds of miles. We are sworn to each other. You're nothing to that. Talk."

For a second more, Falathor kept his mouth stubbornly shut. It was useless; a retort was already welling from his lips when a servant appeared by the table, bearing a look of polite curiosity. In a flash, the crossbow fled out of sight. Invisible, perhaps, but Falathor was sure the deadly point remained fixed on him. He did not speak.

"What may I bring you, good sirs?" the servant enquired.

"Tea," Beleg replied, "peppermint, with a drop of brandy."

"Excellent choice, young master," the servant murmured, "and you, sir?"

Falathor's gaze drilled into Beleg's eyes. The Elfit gave no sign of distress.

"Order," he said, with the barest hint of a threat.

"Ale," Falathor said, unable to think of anything else. He wouldn't drink it anyway.

The servant nodded and made his exit. The crossbow remained discreetly under the table, but Beleg looked no less alert. If anything, his concentration seemed to have narrowed to a very dangerous point.

"Now," he said, "I would like to hear what you have to say."

"Very well," Falathor said stiffly, "I have dealt with worse than you, Master Elfit, but I will indulge you. I promised an explanation, and I will not break my vow."

Beleg did not reply, though he looked amused.

"I have been in Tharbad before," Falathor continued, "many times. I… watch the situation, for King Arvedui. Rhudaur has already fallen to the Witch-King; the uncivilized tribes have been his for years. If Cardolan succumbs, Arthedain will stand alone. And Cardolan wavers, Cardolan is faltering even now. It is corrupt. I have seen it. I come here as a lord, directing merchants… I have befriended the Three Lords. Perhaps "befriended" is not the best word – I spent much time in their company, but I bear them no love. The First Lord especially craves my conversation. He thinks that he will learn through me of doings in the North. It is… a delicate game. Knowledge balances knowledge. But a year ago, the First began to suspect his brother Telpedur of conspiring for the title of Lord. He believed Telpedur was receiving aid from the North in a plot to kill him. He approached me, thinking that I might help him discover his brother's fellow conspirators, or that I might be one myself…"

"And were you?"

"Why would I take part in such a conspiracy, Master Elfit?"

"I can think of several reasons quite easily. Telpedur might have promised that Cardolan would remain loyal to Arnor should he become First Lord. You might have learned that the First Lord was planning to capitulate to the Witch-King. A dead First Lord could have been very beneficial to Arthedain. Could still be beneficial, for that matter."

"Such dealings would be dishonourable."

Beleg grinned. "I would expect no less from the brother of Lomin."

Falathor clenched his teeth and willed himself not to snap back. "I am not my brother."

"No," Beleg agreed, eyes twinkling ironically, "he is doubtless much more skilled at the game of politics than a young man like you, unscrupulous as he may be. Or… is he? Perhaps you have more talent in politics than your appearance betrays."

"Young?" Falathor countered, ignoring the last comment, "You can hardly be older than I, from the looks of you."

Beleg's lips twitched. "Looks can deceive the unwary," he said, "I am quite a bit older than you think. Now, continue with your story. It was getting very good."

Falathor looked at the Elfit sharply. "Just whose side are you on?"

"I am on Trotter's side. I hope your story will lead to him eventually, otherwise…"

Beleg trailed off smoothly as the servant reappeared, carrying their drinks on a tray. He placed the tea and ale on the table and bowed.

"Thank you," Beleg said.

The servant did not leave. Instead, he shot a meaningful look at Falathor. Immediately, Beleg tensed. Falathor could almost hear the crossbow creaking beneath the table.

The servant did not seem to have noticed. "My lord?" he asked, addressing Falathor.

"Yes?"

"You are the one they call Falathor, of the Northern Realm?"

"Yes."

"I was told to relay a message: the conspirators will be unmasked."

Falathor nodded a casual dismissal, his heart constricting in his chest, and the servant, with another bow, withdrew. Beleg sat quite still.

"The conspirators…" he said slowly, "then my guess was correct. You have conspired, and you have caught Trotter and Anna up in your plots, whether intentionally or no." His gaze sharpened. "What does this message mean? From whom does it come?"

Falathor gripped his mug of ale unconsciously. "Very well, Master Elfit, you have won. But we are out of time. The message is from the First Lord. When I spoke with him this morning, I threatened to reveal the truth to the townspeople. I could ruin him with what I know. I bargained for Anna's life. Where Trotter is and who has him… I do not know." The words tasted bitter in his mouth. "But if anyone can find out, it will be the First."

Beleg studied him. "Where?" he asked simply.

"At his great house, Daer Thirgobel – that's Mickleview Manor in the common tongue."

"I know," Beleg said dryly, "I am, to my sorrow, half Elf. Where is this manor?"

"On the north-eastern outskirts of town… a ball is being held tonight. I had planned for the three of us to go. Anna is waiting there. Now, without Trotter… I still can think of no better option. We must go, and disentangle these muddy lines before they drag your errand down."

"A ball," Beleg said thoughtfully, "how poetic. It would make a good story." He cast one more fleeting glance at Falathor's face, then nodded. "Very well. I believe you. Let us go!"

 

The first thing Trotter became aware of was the sound of his own breathing. It seemed louder and closer than normal. It was then that he attempted to open his eyes and found that it made no difference. Blackness stared back at him indifferently.

The air in his nose smelled strange, musty and stale. He tried to move, and could not. As sensation and consciousness returned, he felt the ropes biting into his wrists, elbows, and ankles. The air, stuffy: there was a bag over his head. He was lying on cold dirt, but there was no noise of wind or trees or anything that would help him pinpoint his location. Sounds were muffled as his own breath rang thunderously in his ears. Still he could make out the voices penetrating through the cloth.

"What d'you reckon it is?" A man-like voice asked.

"Dwarf, I'd say," was the reply.

"No, stain me! I've heard about Dwarves, I have. Them creatures have great curly beards down to their knees, all decked out in gold and jools. Besides, they's made of rock."

"Rock! Jools! Now you listen to someone who knows a thing or two about matters. Dwarves are half-sized, they are, and what else would you call this fellow? They used to have great cities down underground, the Dwarves, but then the dragons came and chased 'em all out. Now they wander around all over, peddling their fancy trinkets. Wouldn't mind a bit of Dwarf gold myself, not at all!"

"You reckon this fellow's got gold on him?" The voice squealed eagerly.

"Hands off!" Trotter tensed, but the expected touch did not come. "You can loot him later, if the Lord says it's alright. But first he needs him for something."

"What's he need a wandering Dwarf for? Maybe – you think – he's going to make him teach us the secret of making gold from metal? We'd all be rich as thieves."

"Ha! If the Lord learns any such secret, he'll nary be teaching it to the likes of us! Besides, those are fairy stories, like the Elves and magic wine and all that. No, I don't know what the Lord wants with a runt like this, and I ain't asking neither. I'm just an old guard taking care of my lord. Besides, I like fire well enough in the hearth, but I'd rather not end up as the wood."

"Ha ha – sure, just a plain old guard is what you are!"

"But a right funny one, you must admit."

The other voice chuckled interminably into the dark stillness, until somewhere above hinges squeaked. They were inside, then. Thumping footsteps followed, rustling noises and voices.

"Here now! Come up out of your little hole! The Lord wants them both, the little man and the girl."

Trotter's heart leaped and his muscles bunched convulsively. Had he heard correctly? Was she here – in this room? His heart urged him to call out, but another voice, deeper and calmer, advised him to hold his tongue. Moments later, he was hoisted over a Man's shoulder, his head dangling dizzily downwards. He was carried a few steps, then they began to climb upwards: a ladder. Then more walking, for a long way, a corridor perhaps. He had the distinct sense that they were underground. Not for long – steps followed, many of them in an endless spiral, in the darkness with the breathing of Men all around.

They reached the top and halted briefly. Light seeped into the bag over his head. He heard music and laughter, the voices of many people. Then they were moving again, away from the sounds. It was only a short trip this time before he was dumped onto a happily soft rug. Before he could recover, another body was thrown against him. The person was small, thin, and he knew immediately that it was Anna, his Anna. He bit back the words that came unbidden to his lips. Was she conscious? Did she know he was beside her?

The voice of the knowledgeable guard began to speak again, respectfully this time.

"My lord, here are the prisoners."

"Good. You may go." The answering voice made Trotter's breath catch unpleasantly. It was raspy and hard, like serrated metal, and not at all reassuring.

Sounds of muffled footsteps and cloth rustling; some of their escort must have exited, though he strongly doubted that they had been left entirely unguarded. His guess proved correct. He might have been pleased in more promising circumstances.

At some invisible sign, a pair of hands fumbled roughly at his neck and jerked the hood from his head. A muffled exclamation came from his side as he blinked owlishly in the suddenly too bright light.

"Find the other two," the metallic voice ordered from directly in front of him.

Looking up, Trotter found himself not at all surprised to be staring into the iron face of the First Lord of Tharbad.

 

One could not deny that Mickleview Manor was deserving of its name. Imposing as the twilight, it reared from the hunchback of a flat hill on the north-eastern outskirts of Tharbad. On the southern slope rich houses and gardens languished in the shade of their superior; on the north side, the fields and hovels of the farmers working the First Lord's land stretched out to greet the forest border on the far-away horizon. From this modest perch the great house frowned down on city and wilds alike, secure in the superior smugness of its builders and inhabitants. While the manor ruled over Tharbad, inside the First Lord presided over his ball, mentally extending his sovereignity over even the wind that had just nudged the two latest guests inside.

To Beleg's eyes it had looked a strange mixture of hall and castle as he passed through the doors at Falathor's side. The Elves and the Men of the North did not build in this fashion, preferring simplicity and utility to extravagance. Mickleview Manor, breathtaking in its grandeur and luxury, sprawled upon the brow of the hill, stretching its several wings out as if to possess the earth. Constructed all of fine, most likely imported stone, its several floors and numerous small turrets made it as delicately lovely as it was defenceless.

Despite its size, the manor was crowded. The First Lord's balls were famous, and anyone with enough money or heritage scrabbled for an invitation. The rooms, plush and colour-coded, swarmed with the elegant elite of Tharbad. Some were masked or costumed, others in traditional but equally radiant garb. At the centre of this domestic web lay a great hall, filled by a chamber group with brave strains of music whose rhythm the guests' feet tapped out on the shining floor.

"Why all the clocks?" Beleg asked his companion idly. Every room they had passed housed at least one clock, usually large and exotic.

"The First Lord is measuring his time," Falathor replied with a touch of irony. Beleg declined to comment, giving his attention instead to the dancers on the floor. The two of them lounged inconspicuously near the door, watching the proceedings with eyes that sought the dagger amidst the velvet.

"The amusements are charming, one must admit..." Beleg said neutrally. Falathor glanced at him knowingly.

"Be patient. We did not come here to dance. I gave my word all would be revealed to you. But we must wait for him to summon us."

Beleg merely looked up at him innocently before returning to his scrutiny of the guests. He had abandoned his crossbow, and was left feeling naked and insubstantial. Still, at least he had enough strength now to stand steadily. He did not doubt Falathor's word; in truth he had never doubted it, but it was always better to be sure.

He hated waiting. Falathor had promised him the truth from the lips of the First Lord himself, eventually. There was a conspiracy at work – Beleg was sure of that, and he would learn of its nature. But beneath that, carefully controlled and yet so powerful that it made him nearly nauseous, was a wrenching worry about Trotter and Anna. It was not something he had experienced before, so unfamiliar indeed as to make him wonder whether it was merely a side effect of the Warg poison. He had loved before, and he had his honour, but never like this, as a brother and friend. The feeling made him all the more determined to reunite them all, by whatever means available.

He stole a glance at the tall Man beside him. How far would Falathor go for them? He felt no love for this human or any human, but Trotter considered the Dúnedan his friend. At what cost might Anna's life and Trotter's freedom be bought?

And who would pay?

"I would..." Falathor murmured, frowning thoughtfully, "I would think that is our man." He gestured discreetly toward a rather scrawny servant who was squirming with difficulty through the crowd of dancers. Sure enough, the Man made straight for them and bowed low before Falathor, unable to hide his curious glances at Beleg.

"My lord Falathor," he said in the universal tone of servants, "the First Lord requests your presence."

"My companion and I are honoured. How fares his lordship?"

"He is most eager to speak with you," the servant said, "if you will follow me?"

 

Anna looked frightened, but did not seem to be hurt. Her face was pale and smudged, drawn, her garments ragged and filthy. Uneasy green eyes flickered out at him.

She looked like she wanted to speak, but he shook his head slightly and they both remained silent. Suddenly, despite his joy at seeing her, Trotter felt his murky doubts resurfacing. He turned away to hide the expression he knew must be on his face. His surroundings proved no more reassuring than his feelings. Cold stone walls enclosed what seemed to be an antechamber to somewhere, lit by two torches and made no warmer or more welcoming by the sumptuous rugs and stately furniture filling the brooding space. The First Lord stood like an ancient monument in the centre of the room, grim and rigid.

The air grew no warmer when the door opened and a servant ushered in Falathor and Beleg. Once again Trotter nearly cried out, but kept silent with an effort of will, mindful of the guards still surrounding them.

"My lord." Falathor bowed elegantly, seeming completely unruffled at this reception and the sight of his friends in bonds. His eyes flickered only briefly towards Trotter, flashing what might have been a warning. The Hobbit needed no further prompting. He felt achingly tired and tensely curious at once. It was clear to him that now, at last, they had come to a culmination, and someone would finally explain something.

"No need for courtesies," the First Lord said in reply to Falathor's bow, "they will only hamper us now. As you can see, your attempt to force my hand has failed. I have your acquaintances in my power. Your influence here may have become strong, but you cannot protect them."

"The people would revolt if they knew the truth about Telpedur."

"They would not. There would be unrest, yes, but I would control it. The people know they cannot survive without the Lords in these times. You would do them no favour; they do not want to know the truth. They wish only to work and play, and leave high matters to the Lords."

"Anyone can be a Lord."

"You think to replace me with another more to your taste? If I fall, I will not hesitate to take Tharbad into ruin with me. That also is within my power. You know you cannot allow it."

"Then it seems we are at an impasse."

At this, Beleg moved impatiently, stepping forward from his place by Falathor's side. "No," he snapped, "I've had enough of waiting. Whatever is going on here, it must be resolved now. We have no time to waste."

The First looked at him with mild curiosity, the way a housewife looks at a chicken she is about to butcher. "Great words for a small warrior," he said softly, "but perhaps you are right. I am curious, Falathor, as to just how many strings your hand has been pulling this last year."

Falathor nodded, mild resignation mixing with wariness in his eyes. "It seems the time for explanation has come. I believe you think I am in league with the dark forces and intend to betray Cardolan to the North, Lord. It is not so. I will elaborate, if you allow. Will your guard stand down?"

Only the briefest of hesitations was evident on the First Lord's face before he flicked a slight gesture with his hands. Leather creaked as the remaining guards eased away from the five figures confronting each other and slipped discreetly into the shadows of the room.

"Speak," the First Lord commanded quietly.

An invisible tension filled the air as four pairs of eyes locked onto Falathor's face. A light flush coloured the young man's cheeks, belying his calm demeanor. But when he spoke, his voice was calm.

"Very well," he said, "it begins, I suppose, in the North." He paused for a moment as if to say where else? "King Arvedui has known for years that an attack was massing. He knew that Rhudaur was already lost beyond recall. Arthedain is weak, weaker than Cardolan, wanting in men and resources. Together, the two remaining thirds of Arnor might hold off the North, but Cardolan has withdrawn from the King. No messengers ride between Tharbad and Fornost. But the King knows well that Arthedain cannot stand alone... he sent me here some years ago to open communications with Cardolan.

"My first impression was of utter hopelessness. This city is driven by profit and money-lust. The rich abuse the poor, using them as workers in the mines and mills. How would these merchants and businessmen ever be moved to take up a war while they are not personally threatened? The people of Tharbad knew as good as nothing about the shadow in the North, and did not care to know. I settled here in the guise of a noble merchant from the North. I did not expect that this fact would draw to me certain people who might after all have an interest in the cold war games played on our snowy northern downs.

"Telpedur came to me, requesting an import of Elvish wine. I did not personally visit the shops under my control, so he came to my room at the Golden Wasp. I thought nothing of it until I learned that he was the brother of the First Lord, and had a reputation for mystery.

"He visited me again, always with minor requests for some specialty from Arthedain or Lune. I began to ponder, and it came to my mind that he sought more than rare luxuries."

"He conspired against me!" the words burst like chunks of raw iron from the First Lord's mouth. "He wished to depose me with Arthedain's help! He would have collaborated in your wars in return... do not deny this! I have known the treachery of my worm of a brother."

Falathor was shaking his head. "You are so close to the truth that you fail to see it. He did wish to depose you, buy favour with the North and collaborate in its war. But it was not with Arthedain that he conspired." He began to pace restlessly, almost forgetting the presence of his listeners. "He used me as he did you, seeking information. Telpedur had an outside source... someone in the service of the Witch-king, who told him of my rank and mission. I know much of the plans and defences of Arthedain – all knowledge I might share with an ally. He would bring Cardolan to the Witch-king, and in return rule as Lord.

"I almost came to trust him. What might have happened had I shared with him the secrets of our defences in the Weather Hills... it would have been a short war. We built plans for an alliance between Arthedain and Cardolan, but always I spoke more, and he listened. It was only on the day of the flood that I realized my mistake."

"We had planned a meeting for that afternoon, outside by the riverbanks. The waters had been rising all day and I was concerned. I went to Telpedur's house on the premise of discussing cloth prices with him. He was not there, and the servants informed me that he had gone to the city to do business with a paper merchant. I became worried, for the flood waters had become dangerous. After inquiring after the name of the merchant, I set off on Telpedur's tracks. When I arrived, he was not merely purchasing paper, but writing a letter. By chance I caught a glimpse of the lines. It was an account of the architecture of the palace of Menechenneth. I had been boasting of its defences and beauty earlier that day.

"Harsh words passed between us then, for my quiet suspicions had become realized. He could not deny that he served the Witch-king. Nearly we came to blows, but he fled. I called after him that I would expose him to you, Lord, and the city. If the people did not tear him apart I would do it myself. He fled in a panic."

"He was a coward," the First Lord interjected stiffly.

"He proved himself one that very night. Telpedur knew that I do not threaten lightly. He feared that you suspected him..."

"I did, but not of conspiracy with the Witch-king. I am not a fool. I knew of his visits to you, Falathor, and kept track of them. It took no great thought to equate your meetings with plans for my downfall."

Falathor nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. It would seem so, to you, Lord. I never suspected you of watching him... I thought only of his betrayal of our plans. But if you distrusted him as well, he must have feared attacks from both you and me."

A cold gleam of curiosity awoke in the First Lord's eye. "And that is why he had the girl kill him. Fearful, yet too cowardly to do the deed himself."

"Perhaps. But there may be yet another rhyme to this riddle. Telpedur would not have taken his own life had any hope of his salvation remained. He would have fled to the Witch-king and taken up service there – unless he could not."

"What are you suggesting? He could easily have left the city."

"Yes, but to go where? To join the agent of the Witch-king he had been in contact with. But he didn't."

"The... his contact would not receive him."

"I believe so. Perhaps he did not report on time, or perhaps Telpedur concealed yet another ulterior motive, yet another secret plan for personal gain. But somehow he broke with his master. Thus beset from three sides, despairing and terrified, he wished to die, but was too weak to do the deed. And wandering through the flood into this invisible web came Anna Applethorn, innocent of all intrigue. He forced her hand to end his misery, lifting the blame from all our shoulders and dropping it onto her unsuspecting head."

The First Lord turned his head slowly to look at Trotter and Anna. Trotter repressed a shudder at the gaze. It contained no hostility, only calculating, dispassionate coldness. The First Lord was evaluating the truth of what he had just heard, and deciding how to act upon it.

"Why did you leave Tharbad?" he asked. His eyes remained directed at Trotter and Anna, but the question was meant for Falathor.

"To warn King Arvedui of the Witch-king's influence in Tharbad. If evil had reached a Lord's brother, I could not guess where else it might dwell. I felt I could not work alone any longer. But I became side-tracked in the wilderness and came only much later to Bree and Fornost."

"Yet now you are in Tharbad once more."

"Yes. I acted hastily before. The King advised me to return, and be frank with you. I have waited for too long; I can only hope that my hesitation has not caused our downfall. These three are messengers, sent to request the aid of Gondor in Arnor's hour of need. They may well be the last hope of the North. I meant to help them, but my own devices have snared us all four."

Silence heralded the end of this speech. With that lie, Trotter felt the burden of the clandestine descend upon him. Falathor's meaning was as clear as if he had shouted it aloud: say nothing of Anna and Lomin. The secret burned into his breast, lodging like a coal in his ribcage. He kept silent, hoping that somehow the Dúnedan could pull them out of this.

It was the First Lord who broke the silence, asserting his superior station with every calm syllable. "So. You claim that my brother betrayed Cardolan and myself, but that it was none of your doing. You claim that this girl is innocent in spirit. You offer me no useful information. What about the supposed agent of the Witch-king with whom Telpedur conferred? Where is he?"

For the first time since he had entered, Falathor hesitated, visibly unsure of himself. Bright spots of colour adorned his cheeks, and his eyes were very bright, the lines of his mouth fixed in strange determination. He seemed to be steeling himself. "I believe I may answer your questions after all, Lord. I have reason to suspect that the man with whom Telpedur conspired was the one they now call the Nine-fingered Captain."

"Ah!" another man might have smiled ironically, but no such grimace touched the First Lord's lips. "He is beyond our reach, then. And now – you wish me to release your friends, no? I am to set them free."

Falathor remained silent, looking steadily back at the older man.

"Or perhaps you fear that I will not. You have misjudged me as thoroughly as I misjudged you. Let me, then, enlighten you. The people call me cold – the word 'cruel' is in their thoughts, though they dare not speak it aloud. I do not claim to be altruistic. I look out only for my own interests and those of Cardolan. But I am not such a fool that I do not see the threat in the North. If Arthedain falls, Cardolan will follow quickly. No, I will not aid you – I will not send you men or swords or gold. Cardolan looks after itself only. But I will not hinder you. Send your messengers! I will let them go, to Gondor or wherever they wish – on one condition."

"Name it."

"The Nine-fingered Captain led to my brother's demise. He lurks now on our borders, harrying the outskirts of my land and drawing ever nearer with the shadow of the Witch-king on his shoulders. You wish your friends' freedom. Very well. The price is the head of the Nine-fingered Captain. You are a skilled swordfighter and woodsman. Protect Cardolan, and I will send these three swiftly with a trading caravan to Gondor. They will arrive safely and quickly, perhaps even in time to save Arthedain. Only one head, for the price of a kingdom."

For a moment Trotter was sure Falathor would refuse. His own mind could not quite grasp what he had heard. Surely the First Lord could not know... no one would be so heartless... it was impossible. No one could send a man off to kill his brother. Falathor had faced Lomin before, and come off the worse for it. He could not accept such an errand, he was not capable, physically or morally, of such an act. He, Trotter, would certainly never to consent to such a thing, not to save his life...

But Falathor had already answered.

"Consider it done."


	18. The Heartbeat Drum

Snowflakes flurried down on eddies in the air, heralding the onset of winter at last. Trotter could smell the coming storm on the wind. It smelled dark and moist, heavy and cold, like a wave of sleep settling over the land. Tharbad seemed to huddle in on itself even more in the dreary light, flinching under the onslaught from the North. As soon it would cower, Trotter knew, before more than merely the northern winds.

He stood beyond the last houses of the southeastern outskirt of the city, his back to the wild and his face turned towards a last glimpse of civilization for months to come. The longest and hardest leg of his journey lay before him now: the crossing of Enedwaith and the mountains into Gondor. He thought of it as his journey now, even though he and his companions had been reunited and the way lay clear before them.

Gazing back on the sprawling streets and ramshackle buildings, he could hardly believe they had escaped from this tangle of humanity. He had difficulty admitting it to himself, but for a while there, at the mercy of strangers—and Men at that—despair had crept into his heart. Not being adept at manoeuvring a way through the complicated relationships of the Big People, he had been sure the quest would end there, in the stagnancy of Tharbad. As it would have, had it not been for Falathor.

Trotter still felt a peculiar mixture of admiration, pity, and horror towards his tall friend, the three emotions warring like kingdoms, none having an advantage or seeming to come closer to victory. The strange bargain Falathor had struck with the First Lord—Trotter hoped only that he would never be faced with such a choice. Yet Falathor had not hesitated, despite the gravity of the price demanded of him. The First Lord had agreed to allow Trotter, Beleg, and Anna to continue on their way, even given them a convoy of sorts—a merchant's caravan travelling to Gondor with the last of the fall market goods from Cardolan. Anna's life had been spared on the condition that she never return to Cardolan. In return, Falathor had promised to reveal nothing of what he knew about Telpedur's betrayal—and to hunt down the Nine-fingered Captain. Trotter knew he would not go back on his word, not to save his life or Lomin's. Falathor was of the Dúnedain, and his people's oaths were stronger than mithril. For himself, the Hobbit knew quite well he was incapable of such an action.

"I'm glad to leave it," Anna said in a low, dark voice at his side. She stood as still as a snow-covered hill and as unapproachable, wrapped in a cloak and an air of turmoil.

"The city?"

She nodded in reply, the black circles under her eyes accusing, though she was not looking at him. The Starflower necklace hung once more around her neck, its gem concealed beneath her clothing. He had given it back to her the day before. She had not wanted to accept it, insisting that he should keep it, it wasn't meant for her, but he had made her take it back in the end.

Trotter could think of nothing to say. In the two days since they had regained their freedom, the two of them had spoken little. A barrier had sprung up between them. Every time he looked at her, Trotter could not help seeing her tear-filled eyes, the horrible guilt and self-hatred on her face spilling out in the form of a sordid confession. And though he knew it had not been her fault, and thought no less of her—or so he told himself—she seemed to think she had let him down in some way, and he did not know how to reassure her.

"The next city we'll see should be Osgiliath," he said as lightly as he could, "and they say it's the most beautiful one in Middle Earth!"

If he was hoping for a smile, he was disappointed. Nothing in Anna's demeanour changed, and her eyes remained fixed on Tharbad under its shadow of storm clouds. Trotter stifled a sigh, feeling disheartened in a way he had never experienced before.

"Come on, we should start," he said quietly.

They two of them turned their backs on Tharbad and hurried to where the trading wagons stood in the mud some yards away. There were five of them, captained by a Man named Fleance Brady who was clearly of the Enedrim rather than the Dúnedain. He was of average height, muscular, weather-beaten, and in every way exactly what Trotter would expect a travelling merchant to be. Brady had not seemed surprised that three strange, undersized people were attaching themselves to his parties, and had asked no questions. Trotter did not doubt, however, that the Man kept a close eye on everything that happened in his domain, and the Hobbit was careful never to mention his business where any of the company might hear.

Suspicion had become so much a part of his life that he did not so much as notice it anymore. Everyone was a potential enemy, a possible spy. He wondered if his father had felt this way, on his missions out in the wild.

Trotter hoisted himself up onto one of the wagons and helped Anna after him. They had tacitly decided not to find horses for this part of the journey. Trotter wasn't sure why, but it seemed important that they move calmly and discreetly for a while, instead of prancing around on animals. It would have been hard to find a mount appropriate for a Hobbit in Tharbad anyway, so he told himself. But perhaps, he thought ironically, he was just becoming tired of all this adventure, if he was going to settle for a quiet wagon ride instead of a horse.

He and Anna settled themselves on the front seat, wrapping their cloaks around themselves tightly. Trotter could hear Brady shouting orders somewhere, the creaking of wheels and of leather as the wagons began to line up. There were five of them, and twenty in the party, not counting himself and his companions. All were Men, needless to say, and more than one of them had cast a curious glance at him and at Anna, only to look away hurriedly, as if their small passengers were spirits.

"Going to sleep the whole way?"

All Trotter's muscles tensed and relaxed in an instant and he caught himself on the verge of breaking into laughter.

"Beleg! I was wondering where you'd got to! What—are you going to walk?"

Beleg flashed his token grin and leaned indolently against the wagon. Colour had returned to his face and his hair had begun to grow out to its full brown-and-gold streaked length again. He seemed to have recovered perfectly from his wound, and in fact looked happier and healthier than Trotter had ever seen him. A shadow had passed from his face; the anger that always bubbled close beneath the surface had receded, as if something poisonous had been burned out of him. He looked quite ready and willing to walk to Osgiliath, simply for the sake of proving he could.

"Why not? We're on the open road again now and too far south for any of our northern friends to follow. Don't you want to feel the lovely earth under your feet?"

"Lovely? Cold and hard, you mean. My feet are quite content where they are, thank you!"

Beleg frowned teasingly. "Don't tell me you're losing your spirit. The adventure's only begun, friend! Winter is here, and the clock is running!"

He sounded positively delighted at the fact that the New Year was drawing close, and their time short. Trotter was prevented from coming up with a sufficient retort, however, when a friendly-looking Man climbed up onto the wagon and plumped onto the seat.

"G'day to you!" he said with cheery frankness, running a hand through his short, greying hair and grinning, "seems you folks'll be riding on my wagon, then, don't it?"

"If you don't mind, Mr..."

"Rode. Oliver Rode, that is. The men call me Ollie, but I'll answer to whatever pleases you best."

Suddenly, Trotter's heart lifted as if a ray of sunshine had broken through the clouds to fall only on him. He felt an instant liking for this Man, who approached them so ingenuously, without any sign of wariness or fear. Perhaps, after all, things were not so bad. They had a month to get to Osgiliath, and the open plains were before them. There was no more danger but the weather, and that was trivial compared to everything else they had faced thus far. Soon his errand would be complete. And then... and then...

"Well, Mr. Rode, it's a pleasure to meet you," Trotter said in his best gentlehobbit's voice, "and I hope you don't mind us taking up part of your seat." A whistle punctuated the end of his sentence, like a trumpet announcing the opening of a gate.

"Pleasure's mine alone," Rode said, snagging the reins and giving them a flick. The horses pranced sluggishly and leaned into their harnesses. The wheels turned slowly at first, gaining speed as they went along, until they were rolling along at a fair pace. Beleg trotted briskly beside them, a tiny smile tugging at his lips, glancing occasionally up at the wagon-bound as if to say, now wouldn't you rather be down here with me?

"Now then, they say your name's Trotter and you're from far away in the cold lands," Rode said without preliminary, "where the wine's made from snow and the faeries live in castles of ice. Now, my cousin's wife's brother, he's been up almost halfway to Bree, and he came back with a wagon-load of wild stories. If you don't mind, Mr. Trotter, I'd like to know just how much of his yapping is true..."

Like a bough of flowers falling from a tree, Beleg laughed, open-mouthed and unabashed as a child. Rode faltered and stared at him as if unsure what to make of this, but Beleg did nothing to enlighten the Man. Instead, he shot one last grin at Trotter and sped up to a lope, passing the wagon swiftly and veering out to the side, off the road and onto the grey plain. His hair streamed out behind him, a banner of defiance flying in the wind of freedom.

Watching him, Trotter couldn't help but laugh as well, to the great befuddlement of Mr. Rode. And at his side, her eyes on Beleg, even Anna smiled a small, half-melancholy smile, like a promise of spring before the deep of winter.

 

On the far side of Tharbad, another journey was beginning. A great grey stallion pounded down the last road out of the seething heart of the city. People in the streets screamed and threw themselves out of the path of the mad beast. Children shrieked; women dropped whatever they were carrying; men cursed and shook their mud-splattered fists, safely out of reach of the flying hooves. The rider, lost to the world, did not see or hear them. He spurred his mount as if all the minions of the dark one who had been banished were howling at his heels.

Thus the rider fled the city. He came quickly to the cover of the trees, but did not stop or slow down. The horse, caught in his master's contagious frenzy, neighed wildly, threw his head forward, and plunged into the drooping shadows. Roots reared up to trip him, branches cast down their fingers to tear at him, trunks shuddered and moved to block his path. Horse and rider, possessed by a stronger will, rode them all down, careless of themselves as fleeing criminals care not what injuries they contract in their flight.

The rider sped into the night, forcing a path through the glooming forest, and into the next day. His horse frothed at the mouth, eyes red and rolling, legs trembling with every faltering stride. Yet he ran like a demon, head turned always towards the hills* that loomed closer and closer in the north.

They ran through the day, until shadows grew long again and the forest was left behind and the downs ahead lowered their frowning brows before them. The stallion shrieked with every breath, his straining muscles tearing, heart labouring, yet unable to stop, driven always by something more terrible than pain. But willing as the spirit may be, the flesh has only so much strength. In the grey dusk, the stallion, halting, reared in mid-step and screamed a final cry of rage and agony. Then, slowly and softly as a tree, he fell to the ground, and with a shudder, lay still. His eyes stared, wide open, as if surprised at the sight of the thin tendrils of red seeping out of his nostrils and dripping onto the earth. A cloud of dust, disturbed and unruly, floated irreverently around the fallen giant, settling slowly like a faded blanket.

The rider at first lay as still as his mount. A watcher might have thought the human, too, had succumbed to that fall and left behind his frail body for the ravens. But under the light of the first stars, a hand stirred in the dirt, fingers tracing what might have been an unconscious prayer. Then, as the moon leaves the horizon, he rose from the death-marked place, staggered to his feet, and halted.

He looked around once slowly, as if to orient himself. The night was still, breathless and enthralled by the saga. Then the wind sighed in release.

He began to walk. His feet followed no clear path, wandering without knowledge on the uneven ground. His eyes, fixed grimly on the distant horizon, saw something other than the empty countryside. His hand ceaselessly gripped the hilt of the sword buckled to his side. He made his way without halt, an arrow speeding towards its target as years before a wooden shaft, loosed by the hand of a Hobbit, had sought the same goal. The night waned into a half-hearted dawn. The sun rose and travelled demurely across the sky, beaming down shy encouragement upon the struggling head beneath her. He was oblivious.

In the afternoon of that day, he fell, less dramatically than the stallion had perhaps, but with the same despair shuddering through his limbs. He lay as one dead, strange dreams moving before his half-open eyes as the sun sank once more. Curled upon his side, he might have been a lanky boy tired out after a day of adventurous play, but for the deep lines marring his young face. The sun said farewell to her beaten subject, thinking perhaps this would be the last she would see of him. But in darkness as well there are powers, and they do not always work as one expects.

Only the stars brightened the deep black of that night, and only the stars witnessed a host of shadows rolling not silently across the open ground. They crept in unison, under the command of one they feared and adored, until they surrounded the still form, but a dim hump on the earth. Myriad tentacles drifted out of the communal mass, tentatively fingering their prey.

"Yes! It's him!"

At these words, the throng fractured and dissolved into a crowd of individuals—Orcs and Men, such that they were hardly distinguishable from one another. They drew away from the fallen Man, glancing around furtively, expectantly. A space opened up around him, as the goblins kept a careful distance. If they were waiting, they did not have to wait long. A path broke their ranks, admitting a figure taller than any of them, leading a horse by the reins. One of the Orcs stirred, troubled perhaps by a not-yet-forgotten memory; but it was quickly vanquished when the newcomer, obviously the leader, stopped and stooped over the one who held their attention.

"Yes," Lomin said tonelessly, "you are quite right, Kralfug. It is him." He reached for the other Man's neck as if to strangle him; but his hands found the collar of the shirt instead, grabbing hold and shaking the foundling so that his head whipped back and forth. The traveller groaned and his limbs twitched. His eyelid fluttered, opening blindly into the night. His eyelid, for he had only one eye, the other being covered by a black patch held on by a string that tangled in his red locks.

There was a brief silence before the one called Kralfug spoke. "We will do away with it, sir!" The Orc shuffled forward, a curved blade glistening in its hand. One look from Lomin was enough to stop it in its tracks.

"Not at all." His tone was still flat, as if all faculty for human emotion had been drained out of him. "What do you take me for, Kralfug? A dishonourable coward? No," and here he smiled at last, though without mirth, gazing down into his captive's eyes, "no—I would not be a brother-killer. Men call me cruel, but I am not so forsaken that I would slay my own flesh and blood." His eyes glinted coldly, like fish in an underground cavern, and he seemed almost to laugh. His brother stared up at him, face slack with despair and shame.

"Well, Falathor? And where might you be off to this time of night?" Chuckles skittered through the ranks of the watchers and died off quickly, nervously. Lomin's voice lowered almost imperceptibly. "Coming to find me perhaps? And then what—drive your steel through your own brother, born of the same mother? Oh, what would our mother say to that? Would you kill me, brother?"

Falathor, sprawled in perfect helplessness before him, panted and gasped, "I would... would that I could..."

Lomin shook his head dispassionately. "You couldn't. Not if all the world depended on it. We are made of different stuff, you and I. Even had you the skill, you have not the heart or the will to do it. And so you will have to forsake your oath, little brother."

Surprise and angry humiliation battered Falathor's face. "You know," he whispered, "you knew!"

"My poor brother. There is very little this side of the Misty Mountains I do not know. Do you think it chance that we happened upon you here? As for your dealings with the First Lord of Tharbad... well, you didn't truly believe I would base all my work in that city solely on Telpedur? No, no, there are others. Don't feel bad—there's no way you could have known."

Falathor did not reply this time, blinded perhaps by rage and the sudden bleak realization every man must someday experience—the realization that our influence in this world is miniscule, that one person cannot, after all, make a difference. Here he had finally failed; here, in the wild, at the feet of his brother, he lost his confidence and forfeited his integrity. All his loyalty, his blind faith and rigid honour—an illusion. The good and the righteous did not win. Lomin had won. And for the first time he had an inkling of why his brother did the things he did, why he forsook his people and took to the cynical wilderness in the service of one even he had to despise.

"You see now," Lomin said, with what might almost have been a trace of pity in his voice, "why I am what I am? It is no use. The Witch-King will win, and you will all die, even the faultless, beautiful Elves. The world is changing."

"You'll die too."

Lomin grinned lopsidedly. "And may it be in the heat of battle! What matters it what side I fight on? The hatred of Men is the same as that of Orcs. Steel does not differ from hand to hand. It matters not, I say: you are butchers as much as we."

Falathor shook his head feebly, fending off something he did not want to acknowledge. "We fight for peace... to protect the good people, innocent people..."

At this Lomin threw back his head and howled with laughter. The shadows circling them echoed the sound, hard and ghastly as it was. "You will force peace on your people with the sword?" Lomin asked tauntingly, "Look around—how many of those who follow the Witch-King are men? They are no different from those in your armies. I tell you, it is all a mockery—a mockery! Wake up from your childish dream!"

Tension seemed to spill from the Man on the ground. His muscles slackened and his head fell back, too heavy with hopelessness to hold upright any longer. He looked to the stars, seeking some comfort or reassurance. But they only twinkled back at him coldly, no different from moonlight reflected in a killer's eyes. Lomin watched his brother for a long moment. Then he reached out a hand.

"Stand up, brother, and welcome to the world."

Falathor looked at him bleakly. Then, slowly, he reached out and took his brother's hand.

 

Snow and fire laid aside their differences and swirled around each other in cheerful harmony, flickering mystically as if to entertain the five shapes huddled around the hearth, their backs to a wagon and their hands stretched out towards the flames. The night was dark and cold, but a bubble of warmth and good cheer existed steadfastly on in the company of Fleance Brady. The captain himself had come to pay a visit to his innocuous passengers and the wagon driver who had befriended them, taking a minor break from the almost ceaseless work of watching the wagons, seeing to the animals, observing the weather, calculating their position, checking the merchandise... and so on. They were a week on their way and the weather had grown harsh, though to Trotter it did not seem serious compared to northern winters in Bree. Though comparatively mild, the winds were unpredictable, and a blizzard had broad-sided them that afternoon. Brady had ordered the wagons drawn up in the lee of a stony hill—the main feature of this country—and seen to it that every man was protected from frostbite as well as might be.

So Trotter, Beleg, Anna, and Ollie Rode made themselves as comfortable as a person can outside in a full-on blizzard with only a wagon as shelter. Rode had harrumphed and said this was one of the hazards of the trade, any true merchant man or wagon driver could deal with it well enough. Beleg had found the situation perversely humorous, and had almost managed to convince Trotter that there was something funny about freezing one's toes off in the middle of nowhere.

Brady had come by briefly to inform them that the storm would last well into the morning and they would have a right time moving the wagons through all the snow; not to worry, however, he had travelled in worse weather a dozen times before and nothing was sure to go wrong. Then he had trudged back into the whirling snow, no doubt on his way to talk heart into any man who looked as though the turn of events were bringing down his spirits.

"He's hard as a rock, that man is," Rode commented admiringly after Brady had disappeared into the storm, "it could rain fire and he'd say, alright, men, let's hitch up the horses!"

"I wouldn't mind a little rain of fire right now," Anna muttered, huddling despondently between Trotter and Beleg. The cold affected her worst of them all, but no one dared mention this or offer her an extra cloak or blanket, as she was sure to bite their head off and spit it over the coals. Her spirit and strength had revived somewhat in the past week, but Trotter knew with regret that it was not the same between them as it had been. He could think of no better remedy than time, however, and he hoped they would have enough of it.

Beleg, on the other hand, was an unquenchable source of dauntless good humour, though his wit was as biting as ever. He made them all forget their anxieties, and occasionally lifted the burden of worry from Trotter's shoulders. For he could not help but worry—the snow made him keenly aware how late it had grown, and how little time remained. It was winter, the time when the Witch-king was strongest. How Arthedain was faring he dared not guess. As there was little he could do now to hasten their way, he generally tried to turn his mind to other thoughts. This did not always avail him, however, as strange memories and stranger dreams plagued his waking and sleeping hours.

"Brooding again, my friend?" Beleg asked pointedly, peering at him from under lowered eyelids.

"Not at all," Trotter replied with false haughteur, "I was composing a song."

Beleg's face lit up as if the flames had leaped onto his skin. "Excellent! Then you will sing it for us, of course!"

"Not tonight, I think..."

"Oh, come, don't be shy. You know you're just waiting to show off—why deny it? But if you want, I'll make you a deal. Sing your song, and in return I'll tell a story even Anna will be forced to like."

"I like stories," Anna said, looking mildly offended, "why wouldn't I?"

Beleg only blinked at her innocently and turned back to Trotter. "Well?"

"How could I refuse a challenge like that?"

Rode laughed and clapped his hands, and Anna smiled at him expectantly, making him feel almost confident for a moment. Unfortunately, Trotter had of course not actually been composing a song and was now left out in the cold, so to speak. But he had a small store of songs in his memory that he doubted his listeners would have heard before, and thought he might pass without too much ridicule. Bracing himself, he began to sing to a simple, popular melody he had heard often in Bree.

_"The wind was blowing and the snow was growing  
and the cows were lowing in their bright red barns,  
with foul weather winning and the firelight thinning,  
old Gammer sat spinning her wildest yarns.  
'I'll reckon you a tale 'bout a brave warrior hale  
dressed all in bright mail of the finest gold;  
how he rode a magic wagon and fought with a dragon  
and then went about braggin' 'til his wife him did scold,  
sayin', 'A right fine story! But by the sound and the fury  
I'll top your big head with a glory of mine own!  
You've got your nose in the air and are looking mighty fair  
but nothing me will scare and I'll brave it all alone!'  
So she hitched up her skirt and packed a mail shirt  
and with a stride quick and pert made off to the wood.  
Her man stayed behind, wond'ring how he should find  
someone sufficiently kind to cook him his food?  
Now while he stood and waited his wife had invaded  
the realm long faded of the sorcerer Zaire.  
She hit him on the head with a frying pan of lead  
and dragged him off to bed before searching through his lair,  
where lay many strange devices and odd-smelling spices  
in tribute to the vices of the lords of black magic.  
But hap'ly the good wife was abhorring of strife  
else the end of her life and this tale been more tragic—  
she touched not the vault's dark contents and faults  
but took smelling salts as proof to her knight  
that she'd fulfilled her vow and he need not bow  
for she'd shown herself now his equal by right.  
After her depart the wizard woke with a start  
and clutched at his heart, for his treasure was stolen;  
for he was apt to faint and without the restraint  
of the salts on his complaint his days would be swollen  
with anxiety and fear. But he shed not a tear,  
but rode on his steer 'til he came at last to their dwelling.  
He knocked on the door of the farmhouse poor  
and when it opened looked sore and commenced right yelling:  
'O heartless, grieve! Who from an old man would thieve  
his one, last reprieve from the multiplying dangers  
of imperturbable age that confine him to a cage  
of weakness. Ah, rage! In the hands of strangers!'  
"Why, sir, are you not that sorcerer whose lot  
fell to the womanly plot and mercy of my wife?  
I assure you, good fellow, there's no need to turn yellow  
your salts are on the pillow and are still full rife.'  
'Aye, man!' chimed she, 'and if they're your remedy,  
why, I'd not deprive thee of an essential need!  
Take them, poor soul, for I've achieved my goal  
and I'd not play the role of one ruled by greed.'  
Thus dizzy with surprise Zaire claimed his prize  
and his heart grew a size at the kindness of that pair,  
such that he whispered a spell before leaving their dell  
that the knight remain well and his wife ever fair."_

 

"Wonderful!" Rode applauded enthusiastically, "brilliant! Why, little sir, you've quite a voice on you! And do they always sing tales of that sort where you come from?"

"No one could mistake it as anything but a Hobbit song," Beleg said authoritatively, "what with the jolly rhyme and the laughter and the unavoidable mention of food."

"I liked it," Anna said, "I like how the wife proved she was as brave and worthy as her husband. He only beat a dragon, but she outsmarted a sorcerer! And she did it without even hurting him, and she was very kind to him in the end."

"Without hurting him?" Beleg raised his eyebrows. "She hit him on the head with a frying pan!"

"Yes, but she didn't really hurt him, only a little bit."

"A little? Have you ever been walloped with a lead frying pan?"

"You know exactly what I mean! She could've skewered him with a red-hot poker or chopped his head off with an axe but all she did was hit him with a cooking utensil. He only got a bump from it, anyway, since he woke up later."

"Only? Alright then, let's put your ridiculous assertions to the test, shall we? I'll hit you with a frying pan and you can tell me how much it didn't hurt."

"Well, aren't you gentil, Mr. Wandering Bowman—or Bowless Man, I should say! Tell me, is it hard work keeping up a reputation as the worst rogue between the East and the Sea?"

"No more difficult than... say, Trotter, are you alright?"

Trotter blinked and found himself looking into the quizzical eyes of his friend. Had he been dozing? He felt warm and heavy, and the voices had been coming more faintly, as if from far away. He thought he'd heard something else, too.

"Sang yourself to sleep, did you?" Beleg asked wryly.

"No," Trotter said, rubbing his eyes, "it was probably just the monotony of your argument."

Rode laughed raucously and poked at the fire, turning the coals. They glowed brazenly, defying the wind and snow that still blew and howled around them. Trotter wondered how late it was, and guessed that night had come by now. No doubt that was why he had drifted off. His companions seemed fatigued as well. Anna rested her head on her knees and gazed into the flames, unaware of Beleg, who was watching her, serious now, with a faint line of worry between his eyes. Trotter could guess the Elfit's thoughts—not that Beleg would ever admit to them. How long would the storm last? How cold would it get? How much wood did they have? He and his friend often shared the same worries, but it was generally up to Trotter to express them. He was just about to speak when the same sound that had troubled him before, in what he'd assumed was a half-dream, returned.

"Do you... do you hear that?" he asked, not realizing how hushed and tense the words were.

As if on command, all three of his companions became suddenly still, listening in perfect silence. They had all of them been through too much to dismiss a sign of danger, however faint. For a moment only the wind blew, and Trotter half-feared and half-hoped it had only been his imagination. But then it came again: a low, deep, slow throbbing, as of a giant, distant drum. Badum... badum... badum...

"Yes," Beleg said, his keen eyes searching the impenetrable wall of snow just outside the tiny circle of firelight, "I can hear it. Good ears, Trotter. Now what is it?"

It was Rode who answered, with low voice and shining eyes. "The heartbeat drum. I've heard it a time or two before, on this road. There's many have heard it, and none who can say what it is."

"The heartbeat drum?" Anna whispered.

"Aye. Sounds like a giant heart beating, doesn't it? Some reckon it's the heart of the wilderness itself, the living forest and the animals and the darkness all together. Others say it's a tribe of witches doing their chants and dances out in the night. The only time anyone's ever heard it is at night. And it never moves, neither closer nor nearer. It just stays, beating away, until it stops. Strange." He shook his head. "Strange things out in the wilderness. But I wouldn't let it worry you—it's just a noise, that's all, and ain't never harmed anyone so far as I know."

Badum, badum, the drum said as if in agreement.

"But what happens when it stops?" Anna murmured as if to herself. No one answered, sensing perhaps that she had not meant the question to be heard. Trotter wondered what she was thinking. What was in her heart, what was it beating for? Once he might have asked, but things had changed now. They had both changed. It seemed to him that she had grown quiet. Only Beleg was able to rouse her from her silent musings, with his humour and his arguments and his occasional moments of sharp sincerity. Trotter wondered how this journey's end would see them all. Suspicion nudged at him, but he silenced it, for foreboding followed in its footsteps, and he had enough to worry about.

Not for the first time, he counted the days left until the New Year. He had promised to deliver his message before the year drew to an end. Absurd as he knew it was, he held on to the belief that if he arrived on time, all would be well. Gondor would send her ships and her men to the North, and the combined might of the Dúnedain and their allies would sweep away the Witch-King. All he had to do was reach Osgiliath before the thirty-first of December. Three weeks remained. Not a long time, but he would make it suffice.

Lost in his thoughts, Trotter did not mark the moment when he slipped into sleep. But in the dark turmoil of his dreams, a distant drum kept time with his heartbeat.

 

The wind died down by morning, though snow still fell lightly. It took them until noon to dig the wagons out and get them moving, and even then the going was slow. Brady assured them that it would grow easier, since the weather had cleared and they were heading south. Sure enough, by the third day after the blizzard there was more mud on the ground than snow, which hardly put the travellers in a better mood but did allow the wagon train to make somewhat better progress. The terrain also began to change as they drew nearer to the Gap between the Misty Mountains and Ered Nimrais. The plain began to ripple, growing into hills more often than not, and leafless trees dotted their flanks. Scrub and underbrush appeared, some of it still green, and the air was no longer so bitingly cold. Grey and wet as the southern winter was, it seemed a world away from the freezing, embattled North.

Trotter's spirits rose despite the dreary surroundings as they drew closer to Gondor. The end of his journey seemed very near, and he felt himself yearning for rest, a bed with sheets, days spent not walking and worrying but at peace—at least for a while. It would be nice put down the burden.

For a week nothing eventful occurred, except for the ever-present and unchanging sound of the heartbeat drum, as Rode called it. Trotter heard it every night, somewhere miles away in the wilderness. It seemed to move with them, but did not draw near, and Trotter did not perceive it as threatening, though there was muttering among some of the men who said that the drum had not been known to follow people and this was an unfavourable omen. Brady wisely ignored this, toiling on with the same unshakable confidence. After a time the drum became almost familiar, a trusted and commonplace sound.

It was not until they reached the Gap at the head of Ered Nimrais that the lull ended.

It was evening once more, and Trotter sat with his friends around the fire. The night was relatively mild and no wind disturbed the flames. They had been talking of something trivial when Anna brought up the subject of stories, reminding Beleg that on the night of the blizzard he had promised to tell them one that even she would like.

"Isn't it about time you lived up to your promise?" she asked innocently, but with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, "or will you break your oath, my dear Elfit?"

"I?" Beleg drew himself up, eyes flashing mockingly. "I've made and kept more oaths than you can count."

"Well, it's taken you a long time to keep this one. Or maybe you're just becoming forgetful..."

Beleg cleared his throat. "Your pardon. I was waiting for an appropriate time. Building up suspense, you see."

Anna nodded knowing and Trotter hid a grin. "Well?" the girl prompted once more.

"It seems you're already hanging on to my every word," Beleg said with boyish satisfaction, "what can I do but oblige?" Then, with obvious relish and the full ceremony of an experienced story-teller, he began his tale.

"Long years ago there lived on the western bank of the Great River of Anduin a people closely related to the Hobbits of the Shire today. They called themselves the Fallohides, and they were really more of a big family than a people. They lived in trees rather than holes in the ground, and had quick, nimble fingers. They loved making beautiful things—they loved art, one could say.

"There was one among them named Peric Deepdweller. You may remember—he was my father. I promised I'd tell you his story someday, and that day, apparently, is here. Well, Peric was a bit different from the average Fallohide. Generally they were shy, quiet people who avoided Men and Dwarves, though they occasionally had dealings with the Elves in a modest, worshipful way. At first the Fallohides' land was unpopulated except for their tribe, and their only neighbours were the Wood-elves of Greenwood the Great. But then Men came, Enedrim or some other breed, and began to fill up the country. They were not hostile, but they were many and they took up the space that had belonged to the Fallohides. Peric had come of age by that time, and he was trusted among his people. A group decided to leave behind the riverbank and make their way west, over the mountains, to find a place empty of Men. Peric went with them, as one of their leaders.

"They set out in the spring, not knowing how far they meant to go or how long it would take them. They feared the Misty Mountains, for the passes were and are treacherous and hidden, difficult enough for the experienced to tread—and the Fallohides were not mountain people. They held councils debating what paths to take, supposing they could find any at all. Doubt oppressed them and their progress slowed and slowed until their party stopped at the feet of the mountains. They encamped on the north bank of Sîr Ninglor, which is called the Gladden River, and there they stayed, afraid to go forward and afraid to turn back.

"The Fallohides were not known for their boldness, but in this Peric differed from them. He had been born with a curiosity that some called foolishness and others courage. Whichever it was, it stood him in good stead on this journey, for he went scouting ahead of the company onto the forests on the very knees of the mountains, and so he found the way, though not without aid.

"Now I must digress for a while, for this is where the second half of the tale joins its counterpart. In those days also, before the flood of Men overran all of what was once wilderness, the Avari still dwelt abroad in the land. They were and remain a very shy people, distrustful of strangers, even the other Elves. There was certainly no love lost between them and the other inhabitants of Middle-earth, be they Man, Dwarf, or Eldar. The Avari keep to the thickest woods and the dark nights, slipping like spirits from shadow to shadow, always in the loneliest parts far distant from farms and towns. They had no permanent dwellings of their own, but wandered always, sometimes in small companies, often alone. They were considerably smaller than Men or Eldar and very slight, with dark hair and grey eyes, moving always softly and silently like the starlight. Theirs was the dim time between night and day, when, like deer, they made their way unnoticed through wood or plain.

"There was a maiden among them of melancholy mien, who shunned even her own people and travelled always alone. The Avari avowed her an odd creature, for she was estranged from them even as they were from other races, and loved her solitude. When she met with any of her people she was civil enough, but always departed as soon as might be. She loved the quiet of the mountains and the deep woods, and feared the roaring sea; but revered the glint of starlight on a high stream and the lowering shadows of evening in the forest. It was she whom Peric stumbled upon, on the knees of the mountains by the bank of Sîr Ninglor.

 

"It was dusk when Peric wandered away from his company in hopes that an idea might come to him if he walked. There had been a council earlier in the evening, and a debate on which way to take. Peric had argued for the mountains, saying that they must stumble on a pass eventually, that there was no quicker way to go, and that there was no other way free of Men. But many others had gainsaid him, countering that they knew nothing of mountain-climbing and would doubtless lose their way and find only death if they attempted to cross without a guide. Some among them advocated turning to the South and making their way around the mountain range through the Gap; but most agreed that this path would lead them through too many inhabited lands. There was another group that counselled the Eastern way—to turn away and go to the East instead, where they might find lands as yet undiscovered by others. Too many that night seemed to be swayed by this vision, and Peric feared they might prevailed; but he had always in his heart had a strange dread of the East, though no threat had ever come to him from there. Still he resolved secretly that if the company decided to go East, he would continue on alone over the mountains, towards the setting sun and the sea, which seemed to beckon him on.

"Such were his musings when he came upon the cold mountain stream, Sîr Ninglor, pure and clear as the dawn of the first days. His mind was elsewhere but his feet turned as if by inner knowledge to follow the water towards its source, uphill to the snow and stone. He did not notice the sky growing dark, and the stars were bright enough that he could see well enough that he was not forced to stop.

"The stream, winding through sparse woods up until then, came suddenly out into a small meadow, and there Peric halted, surprised at how far he had come. The meadow looked peaceful under the starlight, overgrown with grass as tall as his knees. At the side opposite him stood a large white boulder jutting out into the stream. And then Peric caught his breath, for sitting on that boulder was a strange maiden, ghostly and fair and unlike anything he had ever seen. She had as yet taken no notice of him, but remained still, gazing into the leaping waters. She was dressed, as far as he could tell, in grey trousers, jacket, and cloak, with soft shoes and no weapon that he could see. Her hood was drawn up over her head.

"Enchanted by this dream-like vision, Peric remained rooted where he stood, unable to move or speak. How long he would have stood there is anyone's guess, but presently the maiden took notice of him and leaped suddenly to her feet, startled. She made as if to run away, but Peric's tongue was loosened, and he called after her.

" 'Stay!'

"Whether she had wearied finally of her long solitude, or whether there was something in Peric's voice that gave her pause, I cannot say; but the maiden of the Avari hesitated, standing uncertain upon her white boulder. In that moment fate was decided, for Peric spoke to her and she felt herself captured by his voice, with no desire to escape. She came close to him, saying her name was Belafalathiel and her people were the Avari; and both of them were much amazed at the other, neither having come across the other's type before. Then Peric asked her what she did alone in those parts, and she answered thus:

" 'I go west, over the mountains; for this land is become too crowded for me, with Men and their houses and quarrels. Even you yourself are proof of it, for Men never travel alone, and you must have others about you.'

"Peric protested that he was not a Man, but that his people called themselves Fallohides, and they too were fleeing the same flood she had foreseen. Then he told her of his company and their longing for the west and how they knew not the way. A moment of kindness or a longing for companions must have sparked in Belafalathiel's heart, for she said she was going by secret paths over the Misty Mountains, and that she would guide them if he wished. Peric thanked her heartily, trying to persuade her to come with him back to the company of Fallohides to speak to them; but she would have none of it. She promised instead to wait for him and any that wished to follow him in that meadow at noon on the following day. Then she slipped away, despite all he could do to stay her.

"Peric made his way back to the camp, hopeful and apprehensive at once, and got himself to bed. On the following morrow he told his fellows of his adventure of the night and how he had found a guide over the Misty Mountains. They were sceptical, quite understandably, and many would not heed him and decided instead to turn back and go toward the East. Some of the younger and bolder Fallohides, however, stuck with Peric and agreed to follow him and Belafalathiel over the mountains. In the end about fifteen of them broke camp and hiked up Sîr Ninglor to the meadow. There they found Belafalathiel waiting for them, and they were as amazed at the sight as Peric had been. For though they had known Wood-elves, she was little like that tall and light-hearted people, reminding them more of the fairest of their own maidens.

"Belafalathiel lead them to a narrow pass near where Sîr Ninglor issued from the mountainside. She called it Cirith Eressëa, the Lonely Pass, and in all their journeying there they met with no other travellers. It was high and treacherous, and no doubt the Fallohides would have been lost and perished quickly without their guide. She led them surely and confidently, nimble as a roe deer; but she was reckless and took no care for her own safety, taking such risks that Peric often felt his heart stop with terror for her. You may have already guessed that Peric's feelings for Belafalathiel were not impartial; but he said nothing, concentrating instead all his efforts on leading his company over the pass.

"On that pass one day something occurred that my father told me about but once later; and it was from this more than anything else that I could tell it had moved him greatly. It was a clear, bright day and the company had stopped for the mid-day meal under an overhang by the side of the path. The going had been good and they were merry, so that only Peric noticed that Belafalathiel had slipped away. He left his companions quietly and followed her prints in the snow until he came upon her, standing at the edge of a chasm and staring down into the depths. Following her gaze, he found the source of her fascination: a frozen waterfall, trapped delicately in a single moment of its fall.

" 'Look at it there, falling forever and yet not falling at all,' she said. But he was uneasy, and bade her step back from the edge. She laughed at him, saying that if she fell it would be no great loss to anyone, least of all herself, and so what did it matter?

" 'I would consider it a loss,' Peric replied, 'and so it would be, for no life is without value, and the value your life holds for me is beyond measure.'

"Then Belafalathiel fell quiet and turned from the edge of the abyss, and they walked back together to the camp, speaking not a word. But from that day she was more careful, and smiled more often.

"Presently the company came down out of the mountains into the lands south of Rivendell, and they rejoiced greatly at the passing, for not a one of them had been lost or seriously injured. Hope lifted their hearts when they saw the kind country around them. They travelled little further, but halted in the wedge of land between the rivers Mitheithel and Bruinen. There they made their abode, and in later years others came to join them. What became of those who went East no one knew, but I doubt not they came to an unpleasant end.

"But the tale of Peric and Belafalathiel does not end here. Belafalathiel had fulfilled her promise and though the Fallohides had grown fond of her and loved her as one of their own, she would not stay with them, saying that a settled life was not yet for her. Some weeks after the company had settled in she determined to depart again, and there was a great leave-taking and much sadness. But no entreaty would stay her.

"She left at dawn the next morning, in the quiet while the Fallohides still slept; but she did not get far before she was overtaken by Peric, apparelled as for a long journey.

" 'What do you wish of me?' quoth she, 'no words will avail you, for I will not stay among your people, though I hold them in high regard. That life is not for me, nor would I give up my wandering for it.

" 'I do not ask it of you,' Peric replied, 'only that I may travel with you as your companion and never leave your side.'

" 'I am accustomed to travel alone,' Belafalathiel said, though by this time the burden of loneliness weighed heavily upon her.

" 'Then I must ask your pardon, lady,' Peric answered firmly, 'but if you deny my company I will follow you ever, until the very ends of the earth. You will not be rid of me anymore than of your shadow, and you will not be able to hide from me anymore than from the stars. For the love and regard I have for you will lead me more surely than the sun does the shadows, and as tirelessly.'

"Then Belafalathiel's heart softened and it seemed to her that her long exile was over, for now wherever she went she would have a dear friend always at her side. She took Peric's hand and kissed him and spoke thus:

" 'Come then, and leave me not; for now that I have loved you I could not bear to be without you.'

"So began the travels of Peric and Belafalathiel, the Fallohide and the Avari, the strangest couple ever seen in these lands. It would take many nights to relate the adventures that befell them. For long years they wandered together, until the time of my birth. By then the Shire had been founded, and for a time my parents took me and dwelled there. At the death of my father, of which you know, my mother took me and fled to the woods of Lûne; and from there you know, and my tale is told."

Beleg's voice died and the crackling of the fire took its place. It had grown late, as Trotter could tell from the stars, and he felt sleepy and content. The Elfit's tale had lulled him, as it had his companions. Both Rode and Beleg were gazing into the flames, their minds obviously far away. Anna was watching Beleg, but shadow hid her face and Trotter could not read her expression. The night was filled with the same steady, slow drumming that had followed them for the past week.

Trotter fell asleep that night with the drumming in his ears. His rest was uneasy; he tossed and turned on the hard ground, slipping in and out of a doze. Some premonitory instinct, perhaps, kept him from slipping totally into oblivion. It was only his light sleep that saved him that night, else both he and all the North might have been overtaken by calamity.


	19. Allies and Enemies

Trotter's skin burned and in his half-sleep he wondered vaguely if he had contracted a fever. It seemed to him that strange, brilliant shadows swept through his dozing mind, like the wings of giant birds against a background of deepest night. Fire fell from their feathers onto his face. With a cry he started up and found himself sprawled beside the coals of the campfire. Disoriented, he blinked and realized that it was still night, the hour when all is still. He was hot. Scrambling away from the fire, he fought himself clumsily out of his blanket. The night air felt good on his face. Without really thinking or knowing what he was doing, he stumbled to his feet and wandered away, with the vague idea of finding some cold water. The stars were bright and beautiful, but it was too quiet... no, not quiet after all. Somewhere in the distance he could once again hear the throbbing of the drum. For first time in a week it occurred to him to wonder what it was that made such a strange noise.

Trotter found himself at the outskirts of the camp and stopped there, gazing sleepily out into the dark. The music in the night lulled him and the stars seemed to sing silently. He swayed, and some inner voice told him it would probably be better to sit down, go back to sleep, as there was obviously something the matter with him. The thought sank away too quickly for him to grasp and he was left blinking dizzily, wondering what it was he had wanted to do.

They had come almost to the Gap, where Gondor began; he could see the White Mountains, dim, huge, and majestic. He reached out with a vague desire to touch them, but let his hand drop when he found he could not reach. Trotter shivered, suddenly cold, and put his palms to his temples, and then a Man shouted somewhere behind him in the camp.

Even feverish as he was, Trotter discerned something disturbing and oddly threatening in the tone of that shout. He could not think why there would be anything in the camp to be frightened of, but some instinct born out of his travels advised him to be cautious. There were more shouts, and the noise of what seemed to be a number of Men moving around quickly. They were carrying torches, casting flickering, fickle light around themselves.

Trotter crept under the nearest wagon, wrapping his dark cloak around himself and shivering. It was some time before he could figure out what was happening at the campfire where he had just been sleeping; but when it became clear to him, cold chills of dread made him cower to the ground.

No one was asleep now. At first all Trotter could tell was that several of the Men in the company were clustered around the coals of the fire where he and his companions had slept. Rode was awake, standing somewhat apart and looking ill at ease; Beleg and Anna stood close together. Beleg glared defiantly around, but Anna looked nervous and kept stealing glances at him. Finally, once all this had settled into Trotter's mind, sound began to reach his ears.

"Well, where is 'e? It ain't no good if we miss one of 'em and then 'e keeps follering us," one of the Men said. He was taller than the others and had a nasty scowl on his face. Trotter recalled that his name was Coldwell, but nothing else about him. They had rarely spoken. As to what Coldwell was talking about at the moment, Trotter could not imagine.

"I can assure you none of us have any desire to associate with you at all," Beleg snapped, eyes flashing with quick and characteristic anger.

"Aye!" Coldwell retorted, "then you'll have no objection to leavin' our company, now!"

"Now just a minute, here," the authoritative voice of Brady interrupted. The leader of the wagon train pushed his way with absolute confidence through the gathering of Men and planted himself squarely before Coldwell, arms folded expectantly. "What's this now? Quarreling with some of our company?"

"Quarreling!" Coldwell sneered, "I'm only sayin' what all of us has been thinking! Ain't it odd that those blasted drums haven't stopped thunderin' for nights on end now? That ain't never happened before! And ain't it odd that these drums start follerin' us just when these strangers join our company? I'd call that more than coincidence, and there's many that agree!"

A general murmur of assent and a few scattered shouts punctuated this speech.

"Do you have proof of any sort of communication between these people and the drumbeats? Because, I'll tell you, Coldwell, I'm a man who listens to what his comrades have to say, but I also try to be just where I can. If you're suspicious, back yourself up." Brady's voice remained calm, but Trotter suspected that he would not alienate his men if he could help it. What that meant for Beleg and Anna, he did not attempt to guess.

It seemed to him as if Coldwell's reply came to him in a dream. Perhaps the whole episode was, after all, nothing but a dream. Except that it was too cold to be a dream.

"Well, it's plain to see," Coldwell said, "the three of them and Rode here were speakin' about those drums the very day we first heard them. Since then they've follered us at a distance of no more than a league, I'd say." Some of the Men nodded at this, and Coldwell paused to let the concurrence sink in. "Furthermore, they tell strange tales and sing strange songs. And that girl—she's got some kind of magic talisman! I tell you, I know witchery when I see it..."

Anna's hand had flown unconsciously to her neck, which unfortunately served only to draw more attention to the Starflower necklace. Dark mutters rippled through the crowd, and even Brady's brow furrowed.

"Aye, miss," the captain said, "let's take a look at that, shall we?"

Reluctantly, Anna pulled the necklace out of her clothing and let it dangle, twinkling innocently in the firelight. She did not relinquish it, and no one attempted to take it from her; but the sight of it seemed to be enough to strengthen the animosity vibrating in the air.

"See?" Coldwell said, "what's a woman who looks like this doing with a gem of that sort? It can only be for some dark witchcraft! And what about the other... the dark-haired one, with his sword that he never takes off. The very sight of the thing makes me shiver. It's cursed, as anyone can tell. And what are they, any of them? Not human, that we know! Dwarvish, but more cunning in looks. Where are they going, and why? I'd like to know!"

"I understand your concerns." Trotter's heart sunk and his head spun at Brady's reply. He felt stunned. The captain had seemed so reasonable, even friendly. But Brady was a practicable man... he would not risk the ire of his entire team for the sake of a few strangers.

"And what do you propose we do about this, then?" the captain continued. There were shouts of "send them away!" and "leave them behind!" but Coldwell shook his head, unsatisfied.

"That's no good. They'll just go rejoin whoever or whatever's been playing those drums and then we'll have the lot of them on our tail."

Brady raised an eyebrow. "Then what do you suggest I do, Coldwell? Have them killed?"

"No!"

Twenty heads swivelled to stare at Oliver Rode, who looked small and uncomfortable under the eyes of his companions. He wrung his hands and stuttered slightly, but his words rang clearly enough.

"T-there's no need for t-that... it would be dis-h-honourable. They're our g-guests, practically. I won't have any part in it. None at all!"

Brady nodded, and Trotter breathed a silent sigh of relief. "I believe Rode has a point. They cannot be harmed, unless we all wish to forfeit our honour and integrity. But, my friends, I will not ignore your plea. If you wish it, I will see to it that these two, at least, be kept under lock and key for the remainder of the road, until such time as I can hand them over to the Guard of Osgiliath, who will treat them as they see fit. Are there any objections to this?"

The Men gathered around nodded and murmured, some more reluctantly than others.

"Objections!" Beleg spat, "objections! Yes, of course there are objections! We have done nothing wrong! And you speak of honour...! Humans do not know the meaning of that word! In league with the drummers! Face me in an honest fight, Coldwell, and I will show you which of us has the right!"

Beleg's hot words only served to darken the expressions on the faces of the Men. The Elfit looked to Rode for help, but poor Ollie only shrugged his shoulders helplessly and looked away in embarrassment. This last betrayal seemed adequate to spur Beleg to an act of righteous rage, but before he could speak or act he was interrupted.

"What about the third one?" someone asked.

Trotter drew back further into the shadow of the wagon. He half-expected Beleg to fling out a biting retort, but it was Anna who answered in his stead.

"Wherever he is," she said with stony calm, "I'm sure none of you will ever lay an eye upon him, much less capture him."

"So you say," Coldwell replied, "but we shall see." He glanced at Brady, who shrugged, indicating tacit acceptance. "Well," Coldwell continued, heartened, "what are you all waiting for? Start searching! And someone tie them!"

The crowd broke up instantly, some rushing toward Beleg and Anna, others beginning to run among the wagons, looking underneath them and among the wares. An ominous babble rose from the Men. To Trotter's eyes they moved like shadows, passing in and out of the light, calling to each other in deep, angry voices. Their movement disoriented him; but he did not fail to realize his danger.

Had he been well, Trotter might have attempted to hide or even come to the rescue of his friends. But he felt so faint and dizzy that the thought of walking, much less fighting, seemed impossible. All he could think to do was run away and hide somewhere, to come back later and try to free his companions. Even that task daunted him. What would have been so easy at another time seemed suddenly monstrous, gargantuan... how could he outrun twenty of the Big People, feeling as he did that he could barely stand? Yet no other option presented itself. And so he gritted his teeth and tried to still the swaying of the world, crawled out from under the wagon and made his way, with all the stealth of a desperate Hobbit, away from the light of the campfires.

In the darkness he could see almost nothing. The twisted bodies of trees loomed up around him, gnarled and ghostly. Clouds had covered moon and stars and it was deadly cold. The sounds of the wagon train faded away quickly behind him. Trotter became disoriented, wondering feverishly where he was, where he was going, whether he had not after all dreamed the whole episode. His bare feet sunk into the cold mud on the damp forest floor. The forest seemed unreal. But it was not silent. The deep beat of the drum accompanied him, and he could no longer tell whether it was the same drum he had heard for the past week or the ruthless beating of his own heart. Whatever it was, he could not shut it out. He began, somehow, to run on legs that felt as if they might give way any minute.

Trotter did not know how far he ran, but it could not have been very far. He was aware of the endless drumming, of branches lashing him in the face and roots grabbing at his feet, of the stabbing ache in his chest. Then the trees widened out suddenly into a dark clearing. The drum thundered, filling his ears and mind.

Something caught at Trotter's foot and he fell to the ground. Stars burst inside his head to make up for the lack of celestial ones. Then they winked out and he lay stricken, half-conscious, in the winter woods.

 

The wagon was a decidedly uncomfortable place, Beleg decided, which was why he had been avoiding the things all along. Added to general discomfort were anger and humiliation, putting him in a definitely grim mood. It was perfectly dark, and the stuffy air smelled of dust.

He would have been willing to challenge the whole of the company rather than be taken without dispute. Only Anna's pleading look had stopped him. It still felt odd, having to take other people into consideration when making decisions. He had grown so used to travelling alone. As it was, instead of fighting he had allowed Coldwell and his cronies to bind his hands and feet and throw him into one of the wagons, covered tightly by a thick leather top. Then the covering had been lashed down again, and there he sat in the dark among bushels of cloth and other, unidentifiable objects. At least they had not separated him from Anna; he could hear her breathing softly beside him.

They spent five minutes trying to manoeuvre into more comfortable positions, Anna muttering just softly enough that he could not make out what she was saying. The wagon bed seemed to be full of barrels of something, wine perhaps or even cheese—the smell pervading the air was too neutral to be sure. Beleg finally gave up trying to find a way to sit without being cramped. It was simply impossible with his hands bound behind his back. Eventually he settled for leaning awkwardly against a barrel, his shoulder hunched painfully. Anna continued to squirm around, obviously not yet resigned to discomfort.

"Don't bother," Beleg said at last, "it's impossible. We'll just have to make the best of this whole thing."

"Best—of—what?" Anna grunted, stubbornness oozing through her gritted teeth, "this is only an—interlude. A few hours, and then..."

"Then what?"

Anna's movement stopped briefly.

"Then we'll think of something or... or Trotter will come and get us out..."

"You think Trotter is likely to rescue us from underneath the noses of twenty angry Men? He'll land himself in here with us!"

"Don't be silly! He's done greater things before." Anna's indignation was only too evident. There was a muffled thump as she struggled defiantly one last time, followed by a stifled exclamation.

"Are you alright?" Beleg asked apprehensively.

Anna did not answer immediately. Beleg squinted in what he thought was her direction, wishing in frustration that he could see. It would be only too typical if she had knocked herself unconscious, leaving him alone with the barrels... was that a darker lump? He almost thought one of the shadows had a slightly different texture. But wait... shadows? All had been dark before.

He was about to remark on the fact that he could almost see when Anna did it for him.

"Say... is it getting lighter?"

Without question, it was. He could see Anna's faintly lighter silhouette against the black of the barrels. He wondered if the sun had risen outside and light was seeping in—except that it shouldn't be morning yet. Then Anna moved slightly and suddenly he realized where the light was coming from.

"Anna," he breathed, "the necklace!"

She glanced down at where the Starflower had slipped from her neckline in that last, determined contortion. It was glowing ever so faintly, like a very timid bit of star. The light did not grow, but it remained steady, bright enough to allow them to barely make out each other's contours.

"How strange," Anna murmured, "it hasn't done that since I first touched it."

"Why do you think..."

"I have no idea..."

Beleg shook his head. "A small mystery... but I wonder..." He did not go on.

"Yes, it's certainly mysterious," Anna said, brow furrowed, "why does it light now? Why does it light for me at all?"

"What do you mean? You're its bearer, aren't you?"

He could tell Anna was gazing at him, or in his direction, though he could not see her face.

"I shouldn't be... I lost it. It left me when it found out about... well, you know, in Tharbad. Things like this don't belong to people like me."

Beleg's stomach clenched. "That's nonsense. The trinket can't think. Besides, it did come back to you."

"Only because it was given."

Beleg's head sunk onto his chest silently. He watched Anna's vague form out of the corner of his eye, wishing he knew what to say to make her understand. She was so set on disparaging herself that she would listen to no one. It was not something he had experienced himself and he did not know exactly what prompted it. He realized, in a quiet revelation, that he himself had been rather lucky. Despite being a half-breed, his life had not been unbearable. He had been loved and cared for and educated. Anna had only been alone, ostracized and disdained. Yet she was not pitiful, and now more than ever he felt the power she had over him.

"The things most worth having are always given by others," he said softly.

"How do you mean?" she asked, her attention suddenly focused gently but intently on him.

"I mean that friendship cannot be taken. Nor love. These things can only be given by the free will of others."

"If they choose to give them!" A faint snort accompanied the words.

"But they have. Trotter gave you back that necklace. He also gave you his friendship, from the very beginning, in fact. And you gave yours in return, did you not? As for myself..."

He could feel her waiting expectantly, curiously, half-knowing what he was going to say. He sighed inwardly.

"As for myself. Trotter asked me once, just before we left Fornost, why I chose to follow him. I said I would tell him someday. But now it seems I will tell you instead. The truth is... the truth is I wasn't following him at all. It was you I followed."

"Me?" The surprise in Anna's voice was nearly tangible. "But—but you hated me! You called me all sorts of awful names and—well!"

Beleg laughed with audible irony. "I acted rather rudely, didn't I? I hope you'll forgive me. I was a fool. Never before had I felt so... compelled. It was as if Fate had truly taken a hand, and I resented it. I do not feel that way now."

Anna had turned her face away; he could see the outline of her nose in the wavering light. He continued blithely.

"So you see, you have been given not only friendship, but love as well."

It might have been his imagination, but Beleg almost thought the light of the necklace pulsed for a moment, like the beat of a heart. He blinked, and found Anna looking at him steadily.

"Then I would be a miser not to return it."

Beleg suddenly found it a great irony and a great injustice that at that moment both of them were tied too tightly to move.

 

Trotter did not realize immediately that he was awake. It was dark, and he could hear voices speaking softly very close to him. He felt oddly comfortable. Something about that seemed wrong... he had the nagging sense that he shouldn't feel good at all, that he should be cold or frightened or in similar discomfort. He wasn't cold; in fact, he felt hot, far too hot. The air around him seemed stifling, rushing in and out of his parched throat like dragon's breath.

He moved weakly and discovered that someone had covered him with a thick animal hide of some sort. No wonder he felt so overheated... he pushed at the heavy blanket, starving for a breath of fresh, cool air. At his movement, the soft murmuring stopped. He sat up, feeling wrung out and oddly light. Blinking, he looked around, but could make out little in the dimness besides vague, rough walls and the glowing embers of a dying fire. He couldn't be sure, but... there were two shadows beside the coals. Where they... people?

He coughed painfully, and one of the shadows moved. Yes—it was a Man! He was very short for a human, round-bellied and dressed in something that rustled. He did not come any closer, but Trotter was sure that the Man's attention was fixed on him.

"Who are you?" he asked, hearing his voice rasp in his throat. Swallowing heavily, he tried again. "Might... might I have some water?"

The Man did not seem to understand, and Trotter began to wonder if he understood the Common Tongue. Haltingly and with little hope, he tried Quenya; as he had expected, his strange hosts did not answer to that either.

Feeling distinctly at a loss, Trotter fell silent. He was painfully thirsty and light-headed, but could think of no way to communicate. He wondered dismally where he was—his memory extended only as far as his fall in the clearing, where the drums had been so loud. The drums... was it possible that these round little Men were the drummers that had so intimidated the merchants? Trotter was almost certain that it was so. If his throat had not felt so dry, he might have laughed.

Trotter was not fond of inaction, so he determined after only a moment that if he could not ask for water he could at least go find some for himself. This turned out to be easier thought than done: as soon as he stood, the world spun dizzily around him, and the two Men by the fire leaped to their feet.

"Nôth! Ri-shtelges!" one of them said, hurrying to his side. Trotter was so surprised that he sat right back down again. His surroundings jerked sickeningly and he found himself staring up at a concerned, brown, large-nosed face.

"Wha—what did you say?" he sputtered.

"Ri-shtelges, ghigra," the Man said, smiling. He gestured to his companion, who handed him a cup.

Trotter received the vessel gratefully, elated to find it brimming with cool water. He sipped it carefully, making sure not to spill any. At least it gave him time to think. These people spoke a language completely different from anything he had ever heard. He wondered who they could be—he could not recall hearing anything about a race of Men in this area, except of course for the Dúnedain.

He handed the cup back with a smile. "Thank you."

The Man smiled back at him, his brown face crinkling like a potato skin. "Yáma rikkel, ah?"

Trotter shook his head to show that he didn't understand, but the Man only chuckled merrily.

"Ri-doshkoles, ghigra," he said, gesturing to the blanket, which Trotter decided was actually a bear skin. This revelation, however, did not help him comprehend his host's speech. At least they seemed friendly...

"Fáles gebel ... esghâ vem doshkol," the Man said in a kindly but rather condescending manner.

Trotter sighed and wished he had the slightest idea what he was being told. His head felt heavy now rather than light and he was uncomfortably hot. The Man still by the hearth threw something onto the coals, and the space around them began to fill with sweet-scented smoke. It was pleasant, and made Trotter feel slightly better.

"Yámakk?" The one who had been talking crouched down beside him.

"Yá..." Trotter tried to imitate the word, unsuccessfully. The Man laughed. Then he became solemn and pointed first at himself, then at his companion.

"Drughu," he said.

"Drughu? You are... drughu?" Trotter repeated. The Drughu, as he apparently wished to be known, nodded encouragingly. Then he pointed once more to himself, but only himself this time.

"Túlin."

"Ah!" Trotter brightened, "your name is Túlin, and your people are the Drughu."

The newly-named Túlin looked somewhat baffled at the stream of unfamiliar words coming from Trotter's mouth. Trotter, however, had little interest in his new acquaintance's state of mind. His eyelids had grown suddenly and irresistibly heavy. The darkness seemed to grow thicker and hotter around him, and the smoke had become cloying rather than sweet. He placed his hands on the ground to steady himself.

"Doshkol," Túlin said, nodding at him.

"Doshkol..." Trotter agreed in perfect ignorance. Túlin grinned and gently pushed the Hobbit back down to the ground, throwing the bear skin back over him before Trotter could protest. In truth, he found that he didn't want to protest. He was too tired... he couldn't keep his eyes open, and the thick heat pressed him down into the realm of sleep.

When Trotter awoke again, it was day, and sunlight was tickling his nose. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and feeling far more alert than he had been the night before. By daylight he could see that he was in a small cave, its opening partly covered by pine branches. The cave was no larger than the average bedroom; the embers had died and only ash remained in the hearth. There was no one there besides him.

Trotter stood up, testing his legs gingerly, and found that they held him without complaint, though he still did not feel quite normal. His sword, belt, and waterbag were propped against the cave wall. He picked everything up and buckled it on hurriedly. He hadn't really noticed Nyéra's absence before, but having it back by his side gave him an odd sense of relief. That done, he walked carefully to the opening and pushed the branches aside, blinking in the light of the winter morning.

The sight that met his eyes was certainly not what he had expected to see. Somehow he had assumed that his two Drughu were the ones who had been beating the great drum for the last week. It had never occurred to him that there might be more...

There were about twenty short, sturdy, brown-skinned Men sitting in a semi-circle among the trees just outside the cave. Facing them stood Túlin, speaking in a slow and quiet voice in his strange language. They did not take notice of Trotter immediately, though he got the impression they knew he was there. He waited patiently, letting the weak winter sun infuse him with what strength it had.

The language of the Drughi was very different both from the hard, clear tones of Westron and the lilting beauty of the Elvish dialects. It had an unmistakable guttural note, as if the preconception of every sound was formed by a growl low in the throat. Trotter did not find it ugly, only strange, and it made him curious to learn more. He wondered whether these people had music and what it might sound like.

"Ghigra!" Túlin suddenly called, stretching out a hand in Trotter's direction. Interpreting the word as a summons, the Hobbit made his way to the speaker's side, trying not to notice the many eyes that watched his progress. Túlin placed his hand on Trotter's shoulder and turned him to face the semi-circle. Then he began to speak again. Trotter caught the world "ghigra" occasionally. It dawned on him that this was their word for him. He wondered what it meant... had the Drughu ever seen a Hobbit before? They did not seem particularly surprised at the sight of him. And why the drumming? Everyone in the merchant train had agreed that it was unusual. This talk looked rather solemn. Trotter thought it possible that repercussions of the struggle in the North had reached even this far, and he would have paid to know in what manner. If only he could speak to them!

To his surprise, his wish was soon fulfilled. Túlin finished his speech abruptly, and one of the other Drughu stood up, as if on cue. He looked younger and somewhat thinner than the others, with a great shock of coarse black hair. First he addressed the assembly, but immediately afterwards he turned to Trotter and said, very slowly, "I am Geshtôk."

"You speak the Common Tongue!" Trotter burst out in shock.

Geshtôk nodded, also slowly, and said, "You are...?"

"I'm Trotter. Trotter the Hobbit."

There was some muttering among the Drughu as they attempted to pronounce this new name, but it died down at a word from Túlin. Geshtôk lumbered to Trotter's side and pointed at the ground. "Sit," he said.

Obligingly, Trotter sat down and crossed his legs, slinging his sword onto his lap. Geshtôk eyed it curiously but did not protest. Instead, he joined Trotter on the ground, looking very solemn. Trotter felt like an ambassador; the Drughu certainly looked expectant, as if waiting for the results of some kind of negotiation.

Geshtôk touched his broad nose. "I," he said, "speak for Drughu. You speak for others."

Trotter nodded, watching Geshtôk's eyes. However primitive they might look, he was sure the Drughu were perfectly intelligent. His curiosity notwithstanding, these people might tell him something useful. They had obviously been discussing some matter with great concern, and he was now to become a part of it.

"You travel with Tall Men?" Geshtôk asked.

"Yes, I came with Men. From the North." Trotter waved in the appropriate direction. There was some more muttering at this, but it died down quickly.

"Tall Ones call us Púkel-Men. Bright Ones call us Drúedain. We are Drughu from the trees." He pointed south-east, towards Gondor.

"Drúedain!" It was an Elvish word, though Trotter had not heard it before. "From Gondor?" These Drughu did not look like the stories he had heard of the Gondorrim, certainly nothing like the Dúnedain he had known.

"No. Not Gondor. Not Stone-house folk. From the tree-land."

Trotter guessed that he meant forest. But he had a different question. "You played the drum?"

Geshtôk's face lit up with fierce pride. "Ah! yes! Drughu play drums. You heard warning?"

This was news to Trotter. "A warning? The drums were a warning? Against what?"

"Winter!"

Trotter frowned. "I don't understand."

Geshtôk touched his nose once more. "I tell you. We come from talking tree-land. From... North. Tall Men say Fangorn. Our kin are there. Only very few of kin. We want they come with us. More Tall Men come here, between us, if they do not come. But more: we do not like North. Winter is there; big winter. We know it wants to come. On the mountains, snow comes down. There are gorgûn with snow, but they serve big winter."

"Gorgûn?"

"Yes... Geshtôk does not know your word. Bright Ones said glamhoth, long ago."

Luckily Trotter knew this word from one of Beleg's poems. "Orcs!" he said, "the Orcs are coming out of the Misty Mountains! Yes, we know. But there are coming to the south as well?"

Geshtôk scowled. "Gorgûn want everything. North, south. Big winter will be everywhere. Drughu do not want this."

"Neither do we," Trotter assured him, "we—the Tall Men and the Bright Ones in the North—are fighting the Orcs and the big winter."

"Ah! You fight the Orrrc with steel? But you cannot fight big winter with steel. Winter sends bad thoughts, bad spirits to make you ill."

Trotter blinked, taken aback. He had not considered his sudden illness anything more than the result of hard travel, little sleep, and the winter cold. The winter cold... but that must be all. The Witch-king couldn't influence anything at this great of a distance. Could he?

Geshtôk leaned closer to him and lowered his voice. "Big winter spirit watches you. He thinks you are important; he must stop you. Geshtôk wonders why."

It took a moment for Trotter to realize that this was a question. Though the Men in the wagon train from Tharbad had not known his errand, he felt no compunctions about revealing it to the Drughu. "I am going to Gondor, to the land of the Stone-house folk. I'm going to bring back many Tall Men with steel to fight the Witch-King—the big winter spirit, as you call him. That's why he wants to stop me."

Geshtôk obviously approved. "Good! Tall Men are good for something. They will kill gorgûn and drive big winter away."

"Maybe. But the Witch-king is very strong... if I don't get to Gondor in time, it may be too late. And I'm afraid I've been delayed too long now. I've lost my companions again, they may be in danger, and I don't know the way to Gondor myself. I don't even know what day it is..."

Trotter could tell that Geshtôk had trouble following all this, but saying it aloud had made him realize just how much difficulty he was in. He fell silent, brooding. Where was he? The ground was sloping; the foothills, then, to the White Mountains. Probably not far from the Gap. He might make it to Gondor alone, if he had a horse, or knew the way, and if he had not been ill too long. In other words, not likely... even if he were guaranteed to reach Gondor, he couldn't leave Anna and Beleg in the hands of a bunch of surly Men, without even knowing how they fared.

Geshtôk seemed to read some of his mood in his expression. "You have trouble," he said, "you must go quickly to Ghondorr?"

"Yes. But I have friends who may need my help." He did his best to explain about Anna and Beleg, the wagon train, the Men's suspicion of them, and his resulting flight. Geshtôk could not possibly have understood every word Trotter said, but the Drughu certainly caught the gist of the situation. When Trotter had finished, Geshtôk turned to Túlin and began, presumably, to explain to him what had just been said.

A few minutes later, Geshtôk translated Túlin's reply, leaving Trotter no less worried and no more hopeful than before, but infinitely more curious.

"We wait for sun-going-down," the Drughu said, "then we ask drums. Maybe we find answer. Maybe we help you, Trrotterr."

 

Hundreds of miles away, the Witch-king's breath blew mercilessly through the red hair of Falathor of Arthedain. It crept into his collar, raising goosebumps on his skin, then slipped away to whirl about the tendrils of the fire. The flames roared louder for a moment, then died down as the cold wind whisked away to disturb some other soul. Falathor hoped it would freeze a few Orcs on its way. Unfortunately, Lomin's uncouth followers seemed oblivious to the hardships of the wilderness. Falathor considered himself hardy enough, but he could not summon the utter lack of caring required to ignore the bitter cold. He could not remember the last time it had been this cold; not in his lifetime, certainly. Lomin himself was as hardened as an Orc. Not that he was much different from one anymore.

"Where are we going?" Falathor asked without looking away from the coals.

"So you finally brought yourself to ask." Lomin was sitting across from him, examining a sheaf of papers. Falathor had never imagined that the Witch-king's officers were literate, but apparently the higher-ranking Men often communicated by letter. He did not attempt to see what was written on the papers. Like everything else, it hardly seemed of interest. He had barely spoken for days, and only now had his curiosity and intelligence revived enough for him to wonder where they were bound.

"Where are we going?" he repeated when Lomin did not say anything more.

"We, my dear brother, are going to the East Road. When Angmar launches its attack, no refugees are to escape to Rivendell—and no one is to come out of the Elves' vale either. We will make sure of this. You don't have any objections?"

"What could I possibly object to?" Falathor replied acidly. "Although I doubt you'd be able to keep the Lord Elrond in Rivendell with this lot—not if he wants to come out."

"On top of things, aren't you? So are we all. Reinforcements are waiting at the Road. The kind of reinforcements that will make even Elrond think twice about cutting his way out."

"What...?"

"Don't look so shocked, it gives me a headache. The Witch-king has graciously lent us one of his personal servants. A rider in black. Along with a mountain troll and a generous squadron of goblins. There's no need to worry about Elrond."

"Aren't you afraid I'll run away and tell someone about all these plans?"

Lomin looked up from his reading. He didn't laugh, but Falathor could see the amusement in his eyes. "You're not going anywhere and you know it. You promised the First Lord of Tharbad you'd kill me, but you're far too honourable to go through with it. On the other hand, you can't just abandon your oath. So you're going to follow me around, sulking, indecisive, until something forces you to make up your mind. In which case I'll know a week ahead of time. What about this situation could frighten me?"

Falathor thought it better not to answer. They spoke no more that night.

They did not speak the next day either. Falathor rode silently on the horse Lomin had given—how that chafed!—him. He looked mostly at the sky, avoiding the sight of the Orcs and degraded Men riding around him. Never in his life had he thought to be a member of a company of Orcs... but then, there were a lot of things he had never expected. He thought vaguely of Indithel, safe now in Lindon, but the memory of her was hardly comforting.

It grew colder and colder as they rode north. Grainy snowflakes swirled about them but melted once they touched the ground, turning the soil to sticky grey mud. The vegetation drooped sorrowfully. Water streamed from the leaves of scattered trees—until the Orcs chopped off their branches out of sheer joy in destruction. Several times Falathor thought of simply spurring his mount and riding for freedom, but somehow he never did. Lomin had been right, blast him; Lomin was always right.

They reached the East Road where it crossed the Mitheithel in the late afternoon. The clouds were heavy and dark overhead; Falathor could almost feel them oppressing him. Every minute that passed seemed to sap more of his strength and will. Apathy lay heavily on him. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought it witchery... but it was, of course, witchery, only in a different way. This was the Witch-king's power: to turn everything grey, dull, worthless, and meaningless.

The worst part of it was he could not summon the energy to fight back.

They camped in the woods by the Last Bridge, hidden in the shadows of the forest so that no unsuspecting traveller might notice them before they fell on him. Excitement rippled through the company at the thought of bloodshed. It sickened Falathor; it made him want to sleep. He made his bed as far as they would allow from the stench of Orc bedding, near the bridge and the river where some traces of the grace of the Elves seemed to linger.

Then they waited, and so did he.

 

Nightfall brought more comfort to Trotter than it had for weeks. In fact, he was looking forward to it—looking forward to watching the Drughu and their drums, finding some answers, maybe even finding some help. The night was cold, but he barely felt it. Waiting among the trees, watching the fire flicker, he felt as if he were in a different world, far away from wars and kings.

They had built a bonfire. Trotter was grateful for the warmth it radiated; the cold of the night breeze kept trying to cut through his cloak. The flames threw a pool of brilliant light onto the ground, casting uncertain tongues of brightness onto the dim shapes of trees around. The Drughu had made sure, with quiet competence, that the fire did not come too close to any of the trees, where it might start a forest blaze. They stood in a circle around the crackling branches, drums in hand. Each man had his own drum, but they were too small to be heard from a distance. Túlin manned the giant one whose sound Oliver Rode had compared to a heartbeat. It was over six feet across and stood on its side, with a mallet for hitting.

To his surprise, Trotter found that the Drughu intended him to join in as well. Geshtôk provided him with a small drum.

"It is your question," he said, "you must ask." This meant little to Trotter, but his new friend would not elaborate. Resigned though confused, the Hobbit took a place in the circle. At a sign from Túlin, the company sat down, hands poised over the taut drumheads.

It began with the lowest one. Túlin struck it once, and a deep, throbbing boom rang shivering through the woods. The winds and the trees seemed to still in primal awe. The vibration elongated, hung humming in the air, died away... the moment it ceased, Túlin struck the drum once more, and another shockwave trembled through the ranks. After that the beats came regularly, unfailingly, and the other drums began to add their voices. The lower ones joined first, moving up the scale in pitch until the even the smallest became part of the layered rhythm.

That rhythm was more complex than anything Trotter had heard. The bass kept unflagging time, while tenor and alto overlapped and interwove. Each drummer played seemingly at random, with no regard for his fellows; yet somehow the end result resonated harmoniously, precisely, perfectly. Wildly, naturally, the pack of drums raised its communal voice to the sky. At first Trotter only listened, but soon the beat became irresistible and his hands, tentatively, found a path they could follow. The high speech of his instrument gibbered cheerfully among its brothers.

In a matter of minutes, Trotter forgot his purpose, his errand and loyalty, even his name. His consciousness, succumbing to a musical reprieve, left worry and responsibility behind to join the eternal symphony of the drums. All hearing was the rhythm; all sight the brilliance of the fire; all sensation the deep pulse of the underlying bass. Body, inadequate and discarded, remained rooted to the ground while soul fled rejoicing to the freedom of living sound.

He had no idea how long it continued, or when exactly it stopped. When he once again became aware of himself, the bonfire had burnt down to coals. Silence and starlight reigned now. Blinking, Trotter made out the Drughu, still sitting in a circle but with drums discarded. One of them stood up abruptly, and Trotter recognized Túlin.

"Êth dombek gobelgeken!" he cried. The Drughu answered with a shout that rang through the night stillness. "Eketo gohelmeket dehm! Megshaket ralêghran!" Túlin spoke again.

At these words, the assembled men jumped to their feet and sprang into a flurry of action. Trotter, bewildered, stood slowly and watched them run around in the dark. They were all talking softly amongst themselves, packing various objects up, tying small bundles, and hanging ornaments about their necks, wrists, and ankles.

"What are you doing?" Trotter asked Geshtôk, who had remained at his side.

"Drums favour you," Geshtôk answered, "drums favour ghîgra Trotter."

"Ghîgra?" Trotter frowned.

Geshtôk grinned. "It means: small one. Drums say: help the small one. We will help you find el and go to Stone-houses. The drums say war! Drughu will fight big winter!"

"Wait… find what? El? What does that mean?"

Geshtôk thought for a moment. "Family?" he suggested, "family people? Family you have lost. Drughu help you find."

Trotter did not reply, startled at the thought of Beleg and Anna as his family. In a way it was true. They had become as close to him as his family. Finding and freeing them became suddenly even more urgent. He had lost his first family; there was no way he would lose the second one.

"We leave now," Geshtôk informed him, breaking into his thoughts.

"What? Now? In the night? But – how will you find a way? It's dark and we don't know where they are."

Geshtôk nodded thoughtfully but with a definitely patronizing air. "Only one trade road. Drums say: Tall Ones and your el are on road. We go there, free el."

"The drums said that? But – "

"No 'but'," Geshtôk grinned, "we go now!"

As if to prove his point, the Drughu warriors gathered around. The remains of the bonfire, extinguished, had disappeared in the dark. The drums, too, were gone, presumably folded or disassembled into smaller components that could fit into the light packs the Drughu were carrying. They had knives on their belts as well, and spears that doubled as walking sticks. In fact, everyone looked a lot readier for a long march than Trotter felt.

But at the end of that march waited Anna and Beleg… Hardening his resolve, Trotter nodded to Geshtôk. Five minutes later a column of diminutive figures vanished into the shadows under the trees, heading south.

 

"How long do you think it's been?" Anna whispered. She had awoken in darkness identical to that in which she had fallen asleep. Her hands and feet had grown numb from long confinement and she wriggled them despondently, trying to force blood into the extremities.

"Hours. Days. I don't know," Beleg sighed, "maybe they won't let us out until we reach Gondor. Or maybe never. I guess there are worse places to die, but I can't think of a more ignominious one than suffocating in the back of a merchant's cart."

"We're not going to die," Anna objected, and fell silent, unable to think of anything more to say. That had been a recurring problem: communication. Every since Beleg's confession, she seemed incapable of thought and speech. It was as if not only her body but her mind as well was floating in darkness. What a strange way to react to a proposal of love… still, she mused, Beleg was hardly talking much himself. Apparently they had finally stunned each other into silence. Months ago she would have gloated over a mute Beleg, but now she wished he would speak, and wished she could as well.

With nothing to say or see, she listened. Temporary blindness had honed her ears until the creaking of the wagon, the sound of hooves and of men's voices, the quiet whisper of Beleg's breath had become almost tangible. She could reconstruct the contours and colours to the point of reality, only to have them crumble again into components of fantasy. It frustrated her; she yearned for a glimpse of sunlight, a breath of fresh air. Anna did not take well to confinement.

Neither did Beleg. He was even more restless, though he made no complaint. Anna yearned to tear the bonds from both their bodies and burst out to freedom. Impossible, of course. She was helpless, as always, and there was no one to come to their aid.

She wondered unhappily where Trotter was. At first she had assumed that he'd escaped. Surely he would come back for them… but as the hours lengthened into eternities she questioned this notion. What if he hadn't gotten away? Maybe they'd caught him after all. Maybe he was in another wagon, a prisoner like them. Or even… she shied away from other possibilities.

Beleg moved suddenly, distracting her from her reverie. Anna could hear him in the dark. He stirred again, sharply, struggling against his bonds. Then he began to thrash wildly, twisting back and forth like a fish and cursing.

"Beleg! What are you doing?" Anna whispered.

"Blasted – Men!" he snarled, "They won't hold me anymore! I'll break these ropes with my – hands!" He fought in the dark like a trapped animal. Anna tried to inch away, but not quickly enough to avoid an erratic blow from his feet.

"Ow! Beleg, stop! You'll hurt yourself!"

"Better to fight than lie here like a bale of cloth!"

"Beleg! Stop!"

"No! I will not go quietly!"

Anna began to fear the Men would hear Beleg's shouts and come to investigate. Not that she wouldn't have happily joined him in an angry outburst, but prudence warned her that their situation was precarious. If someone heard they might end up in even worse straits.

Stopping Beleg once he was in a rage, however, was hardly an easy task. Words had already failed. What could she do? In growing desperation, Anna acted without consideration. She rolled clumsily against Beleg, thinking vaguely that he wouldn't risk hurting her in the dark and would cease.

"Will you stop?" she hissed.

He froze. She could feel his muscles trembling with strain and hoped suddenly she hadn't miscalculated.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Listen! It sounds like…"

Shouting, Anna realized. She hadn't noticed it before, but people were definitely shouting and… screaming, it sounded like. Muffled cries penetrated through the wagon cover. A horse shrieked, and she shivered. The wagon jerked abruptly. With a thump, the right side dropped lower, as if one wheel had disappeared. A man screamed very close to them.

"What's going on?" Anna asked.

"Sounds like fighting…"

The two of them lay still, listening with bated breath. The discord of conflict continued for a while without any clue as to who was fighting or why. Finally, it began to die down, and soon everything fell silent once more. They waited longer. Dismal speculations crept into Anna's mind. There had been an ambush. Everyone was dead. No one knew they were there. No one would find them. They would stay there until… until…

Suddenly, voices rang very near. They wagon cover was torn back, and burning light blinded Anna's eyes. She blinked frantically, expecting at any moment to feel a sword blade in her flesh. Gradually, she began to make out a figure standing in the wagon bed. Her eyes adjusted, and the image became clear.

"Trotter!" Anna shouted gleefully, "it's you! I knew it!"

"You did not," Beleg grumbled good-naturedly as Trotter cut the ropes on their ankles and wrists. Anna stood up slowly. Her limbs ached with pinpricks and she felt faint, but the fresh air and winter sunlight lifted her spirits to the clouds. She felt ready to leap off the wagon and dance wildly on the cold ground.

"What happened? Where have you been? How did you…?" she asked all at once, too elated to allow Trotter to answer one question before posing the next.

He smiled wanly. She realized that he was very pale and haggard, thinner than she remembered him. He looked bad, worse even than she and Beleg did.

"Meet the Drughu!" he said.

"The what?" Beleg asked. The three of them climbed down from the wagon and Trotter waved at a group of Men – but Men very different from those who had taken them captive. These were short, round, and brown-skinned, dressed in furs. They looked almost like animals, albeit strangely humanoid ones. They bore long knives and spears. Some of them were herding a couple of dejected-looking traders together, while others busied themselves with a few scattered corpses. One of the wagons was burning, but the others were intact and it looked as if there hadn't been many casualties. Anna shuddered. There had certainly been a battle, between these allies of Trotter and the men of the merchant train.

They were in the mountains, Anna saw – the White Mountains. The caravan rested strung out on a road surrounded by evergreens. Spots of old snow dotted the shady areas beneath their branches. They could not be far from Gondor.

"Are those the 'Drughu'?" Beleg asked, nodding at the brown-skinned Men. Apparently catching sight of Trotter, one of them hurried over to them.

"This is Geshtôk of the Drughu," Trotter said, "also known as the Drúedain. They helped me find you."

"And they seem to have taken care of the merchants fairly well," Beleg noted.

Geshtôk grinned. "We fight Tall Ones, no problem. For Trotter's frrriends. Now we go to Stone-houses!"

"Stone-houses?" Anna asked.

"He means Gondor," Trotter said, "They've agreed to guide us to Gondor. You won't believe what's happened… I'll have to tell you on the way. It's quite a story! At least, I never expected to find allies like these in the middle of the wilderness."

Geshtôk was nodding eagerly. "Yes, yes, good story! Trotter will tell it. But first, we leave Tall Ones here and go on stone-road. The time is now! We walk, and in seven suns find the Stone-houses."

"Seven suns?" Anna gasped, "You mean one week? We're only a week away from Gondor?"

"Think of it!" Trotter said with a laugh, "Only another week and our journey will be over. What do you say to that?"

Anna didn't reply. Now that it came to it, she didn't know what to say. They were almost out of danger, and the prospect of a long rest beckoned invitingly. And yet… she caught Beleg's eye and found the same conflict there. That uncertainty stayed with her throughout the organization of a walking party and the tying up of Brady and his men. When they began to march, her eyes did not see the path or the trees; instead, the faint, imaginary glow of the Starflower floated before her, and Beleg's voice resonated in her ears.

 

Falathor turned over yet again, unable to sleep. He gazed disconsolately at the bare tree branches blotting out the night sky overhead, wanting to sleep and yet resisting it. It wasn't the hard ground or even the cold that kept him awake; he had experienced worse in his lifetime. Something much more painful and persistent kept him awake: conscience.

They had been camping beside the East Road for three days now, with no sign of life, waiting for the promised reinforcements. The Orcs frightened off everything from people to frogs. Only insects remained, and they were hardly welcome. The place grew more horrid every day, greyer, wetter, danker, darker. The Last Bridge, beautiful and stately, stood like a last remnant of a goodness and dignity that would soon pass away forever.

Every night Falathor considered slipping away and riding for Rivendell or Fornost. Rivendell in particular called to him. If he could make it to Elrond's House, he might muster a force to aid the King in Fornost. The city's plight haunted him. Lomin had dropped tormenting hints about the Witch-king's plans and strategies in the North, and though Falathor knew nothing for certain, he feared the hammer-stroke would fall very soon. It might even be too late to remedy anything. His heart burned for his homeland.

Still he did nothing. Somehow he could not work up the spirit to take action. A deadly apathy ate at him, decimating his courage and resolve. He pictured himself slaying the Orcs set, discreetly, to guard him. He saw himself stealing a horse and riding unstoppably to the aid of his beleaguered country. And always the visions remained dreams and he a useless captive.

It was no use. He would never get to sleep. Even if he did, the nightmares could be worse than insomnia. Wrapping his blanket around his shoulders, he crept silently through the shadows, carefully skirting the snoring Orcs, until he reached the Road. This he followed a few yards until the Bridge and the Mitheithel came into sight. The starlight glimmered on the river and the snow piled on its banks. It soothed him, promising that no matter how far the Witch-king advanced, some things would remain forever beyond his reach.

The Road called. It stretched emptily in either direction, ready to take him to fairer places. Not that walking would get him anywhere – it wouldn't take long for Lomin to catch up. He had no doubt that his brother would pursue him. Hopelessness assailed Falathor until he felt he was choking on it. Gasping, he leaned against a tree, gripping the harsh bark to remind himself of reality. But it was a black reality, and getting blacker.

The faint sound of music came to his ears. He wondered if he had fallen asleep after all, and this night walk was a dream. Music – it had been so long since he had heard music. When? He couldn't remember.

The noise did not fade away. It did not get much louder either, but Falathor recognized after a moment that it was not music. No; it was the soft, muffled thud of a horse's hooves. There was a rider on the Road.

Suddenly alert, Falathor crept closer to the Bridge, scanning the open space between the trees. Despite the sound and his sharp sight, it took him several minutes to pick out the traveller. A shrouded figure on a tall steed advanced softly toward the Bridge. Both were grey and barely distinguishable from the night.

Falathor's breath caught. Something about the rider nagged at his memory. It seemed impossible, considering he could barely see the person. And yet… that air of serenity and confidence mixed with caution. The loose robes and tall hat. All undeniably familiar. He felt certain this man was a friend to him, an enemy of the Orcs and the Witch-king.

The rider had almost reached the Bridge when three shadows reared up on the Road opposite Falathor. The Orc sentries, he realized with sudden panic. He had to warn the traveller!

"Who goes there?" one of them called roughly. Before anyone could utter another word, three muted sparks flashed, and the sentries fell softly to the ground. Silence reigned and Falathor collected his scattered thoughts. The man had shot fire! Only one person he knew was capable of that.

Not three feet away, an Orc burst out of the trees. "What's this?" he snarled, catching sight of the rider, "what's happened to the bloody sentries?"

Without pausing to consider, Falathor took two steps to the Orc's side. A firm grip, a twist of the arm, and the goblin collapsed, neck broken. Discarding the body, Falathor hurried to the rider, who had halted at the foot of the bridge.

"Gandalf!" he called softly, "Gandalf the Grey! How glad I am to see you!"

The head beneath its hat turned and the wizard smiled out at him. "Well, if it isn't young Falathor. Fancy meeting you here! Although if I were you, I'd be leaving now. There are bound to be more goblins about."

"Yes," Falathor said awkwardly, unwilling to explain that he had been travelling in the Orcs' company, "quite a lot more, I suspect. Where are going? What news from Fornost?"

"Ah, nothing good, I'm afraid. I am on my way to see Elrond and find out if he's willing to help. He's an old friend of mine, and I thought I might bring him 'round."

"Elrond! His aid would be invaluable. Any aid is invaluable. I fear we are sorely outnumbered…"

"Cheer up – quantity isn't everything, you know! Where the Witch-king's hordes are but numbers, we are individuals. But there's no time to chat. I must hurry on. We each have a part to play, and mine summons. Will you join me?"

Falathor's heart leapt at the prospect of Rivendell. Elven faces instead of Orcs and cheering fires in place of snow! His first impulse was to accept, but he rejected it almost as quickly. Someone would discover the dead sentries soon and guess that a traveller had passed over the Bridge. There were many miles yet to Rivendell; they would be caught before they could reach it. Unless they believed the voyager had gone the other way, to the west. Unless, in other words, there was a decoy.

_We each have a part to play._

"No, Gandalf," Falathor said, "I have another errand. But I wish you luck – may you reach Rivendell well! And bring hope to Arnor!"

The wizard nodded. "I will do what I can. As we all do. Farewell, Falathor of Arthedain!" With that, he spurred his horse, and soon disappeared in the night beyond the bridge.

Falathor of Arthedain did not wait to watch. Whatever coincidence – if such it was – had orchestrated this meeting with Gandalf, it had cleared the cobwebs of uncertainty from his mind. He felt his courage and determination return. He had a task now. Everyone had a part to play, and his was entwined with the fate of his brother. He felt no fear, no regret, only a firm resolve.

He made his way stealthily back to the camp under the trees, stripping the dead Orc of sword and dagger on the way. His horse snorted softly when he approached, as if sensing his master's purpose. Lomin had deliberately put no guard on him. Falathor smiled grimly. Lomin had been overconfident, certain of his younger brother's weakness; he could not have reckoned on Gandalf to change that. Now Falathor's former powerlessness played to his advantage.

He galloped out of camp in the middle of the Road, without any attempt to hide his departure. They would follow soon, but not immediately; Lomin would no doubt find it amusing to give him a head start. Falathor counted on most of the camp to stay behind. They could not risk more than a small party. Lomin would lead it, without question.

The wind blew back Falathor's hood and bit at his cheeks. He laughed in its face.

"I've hunted you long enough, Lomin!" he shouted into the rushing air, "now it's your turn!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. I don't remember exactly how it was supposed to end - they fail, of course, since Arnor has to fall. Anna goes looking for Lomin but it turns out he's not actually her father and the whole thing was a false trail. I believe Beleg was going to go after her and I do remember that he was supposed to die in the end. Trotter survives but spends the rest of his days wandering Middle Earth.


End file.
